


Lost and Out of Control

by OomnyDevotchka



Series: Like a Kick in the Head [2]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Boyd/Erica - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Dean is Sick of All These British Supernatural Creatures, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Jackson/Lydia - Freeform, Long Awaited Sequel, M/M, Post Season Five (Supernatural), Scott/Allison - Freeform, Season Two (Teen Wolf), Unrequited Balthazar/Castiel, Willful Disregard of Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel is forced to Fall in order to avoid hostile angels, Sam and Dean are at a loss as to where to stash him while they search for his missing Grace. They end up leaving him in Beacon Hills, California, where, unbeknownst to them, the pack of werewolves and werewolf-sympathizers they've tangled with once before are dealing with lizard-shaped troubles of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Out of Control

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing that happened. Big thanks to everyone who liked the first part and inspired me to write a sequel, something I was not planning to do. Thanks to [IndusNM](http://indusnm.livejournal.com/) for once again doing an a plus beta job, and to [Dollarformyname](http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/), who created the divider. Written for the 2013 [Dean/Cas Big Bang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/).
> 
> This fic is a sequel, but if you'd prefer not to read the first part, all you need to know is that Dean and Sam met up with the Teen Wolf gang once before, and they do not like the idea of Derek turning people.

            It’s only about a week after Sam and Dean leave Beacon Hills that it happens.

            Dean’s been pretty pissy the whole time, partially because they’re in Pasadena chasing a fucking _shtriga_ , but mostly because Cas has been AWOL.           

            And, yeah, Dean gets that Cas has, like, important stuff to deal with, and doesn’t have time to flutter on down to Earth to satisfy Dean’s sexual needs, but he just…misses the guy, alright?

            Anyway, they’ve finally ganked the shtriga after an intensive stakeout that had required lots of crawling through mud, dodging and shooting things, and, rather inexplicably, an overdue library book, and so Dean feels like they deserve a reward.

            He goes out to get them dinner, and, when he comes back, bag full of delicious greasy fast food (and one grilled chicken burger), he sees Sam at his laptop, a familiar face on the screen.

            “Hey, Stiles,” Dean says, because this isn’t exactly an odd occurrence. Sam, the giant dork, absolutely loves having someone to talk supernatural lore and hunting tips with, and Bobby’s a little too gruff and knowledgeable to fill that role.

            Stiles, with his wide eyes and innocent sixteen-year-old curiosity, meets two of Sam’s needs: he’s intelligent enough to keep up, but has only been aware of the existence of the supernatural for a few months, and so needs teaching.

            “Hey, Dean!” Stiles says cheerfully. He’s seemed a little off the last few days, but Dean had just chalked it up to ordinary teenage bullshit and the fact that he seems fine now supports that theory. “You know that stuff’s gonna kill you, right?” he motions to the bag in Dean’s hand.

            “I’m pretty sure some monster’ll get there first,” Dean says, dropping Sam’s burger by his hand and going to sprawl out on the bed. “Besides, I’ve been dead once before, it’s not that bad.” It’s a lie, of course – Hell had been the worst thing to ever happen to Dean, forty years of torture and pain and screaming that still keeps him up some nights, but Stiles doesn’t need to know that.

            Sam shoots Dean a frown over his shoulder, because that’s not something they usually share with people, but it’s too late – Stiles is off like a shot, mouth going a million miles an hour as he asks questions, demands to know what Dean’s talking about.

            Sam and Dean talk to Stiles for about another half hour before Stiles has to go. “I like that kid,” Dean says after Sam has hung up the video call.

            “You only like him because he worships you,” Sam says, finally turning his attention to his neglected chicken burger. Sam, bless him, is too polite to eat while talking to someone, even though Dean had mowed through his own meal without any compunction.

            “Nothing wrong with that,” Dean says, casting his eyes up to the ceiling. He spares a second to wonder what Cas is up to, before quickly dispelling the thought. It’s unimaginably sappy, and besides, Dean’s fairly sure he doesn’t actually want to know.

            Cas has always been tight-lipped about the whole running of heaven thing, and Dean can never tell if it’s because he doesn’t want to worry Dean and Sam, or because he thinks they’re too stupid to understand the goings-on of angels. He hopes it’s the former of course, but Cas, for all he acts mostly human these days, still retains some of that unknowable quality that angels have, a little of that ‘I was smiting evil before you were a glimmer in your father’s eye’ attitude that’s always pissed Dean off.

            Dean’s interrupted from his contemplation of just exactly how fucked up it is that he somehow finds that quality endearing in Cas by a knock on the door. He sits up and looks at Sam, sure that the bewildered expression on Sam’s face is reflected on his own. No one should know they’re here, not the families affected by the Shtriga, not even _Bobby_ , and it’s far too late for housekeeping.

            Dean pulls the handgun out from under his pillow, knowing without looking that Sam is flicking the safety off on his own weapon. Slowly and cautiously, Dean goes towards the door, gun lowered by his side so that he can either bring it up quickly if there’s a threat, or hide it if there isn’t.

            When he opens the door, all he sees is dark hair and _blood_ before he has an armful of Cas.

            “Sam!” he yells, voice panicked, because if Cas is bleeding, then something severely Not Good is happening.

            Dean hears the click of Sam re-engaging the safety and then setting his gun on the table, before he comes over to where Dean has lowered Cas onto the floor.

            It doesn’t look good. He’s pale, even by his usual standards, and his eyes are half-lidded and hazy with pain. The blood doesn’t seem to be coming from any life-threatening wounds, concentrated on his arms and legs, but Dean is less concerned about where the blood is coming from and more concerned about why Cas isn’t healing.

            “Cas? What happened?” he asks, voice low and rough.

            Cas takes a rattling breath. “My brothers,” he begins. “I was cornered, outnumbered…I had no other choice.”

            Sam, luckily, is on top of the thinking thing, because Dean’s too busy panicking to understand what Cas is saying. “You Fell,” Sam says slowly. “To throw them off your scent.”

            Cas nods. “I know you’re probably wondering…why I didn’t revert back to an infant, like Anna. It’s complicated, but I didn’t get rid of it completely – I just kept enough to maintain my vessel and survive the Fall.”

            “Will you be able to get it back?” Dean asks urgently, gripping onto Cas’s shoulders for dear life. “What’ll happen to heaven if you don’t? What’ll happen to _you_ if you don’t?”

            “I should be able to get it back – if I can find it. I’m in no state to do so right now,” Cas attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

            “Are you seriously hurt?” Sam asks. He’s hovering worriedly above Cas, and shooting Dean odd looks. Dean knows that Sam somehow, miraculously, hasn’t caught on to the fact that he and Cas are sleeping together, but this is just ridiculous.

            “Not where you can see,” Cas says. “However, I did just _rip out a large part of my being_ , so you’ll have to excuse me for my laziness.”

            Dean takes Cas’s sarcasm as a good sign, and he finally tears his eyes away to look up at Sam, whose face suggests he’s a little wounded. “We need to get him somewhere safe, somewhere the angels can’t find him.”

            “Can’t he just stay with us? We’re shielded from the angels, remember?”

            “Yeah, but he has to heal, and we have to look for his Grace.” Dean turns back to Cas. “No offense, man, but even when you’re all healthy again, human you isn’t trained in fighting.”

            “You’re right,” Cas says. Dean can tell that he’s fighting with himself to keep his eyes open. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.” Dean nearly laughs at Cas’s gift for understatement, but can’t find it in himself to do so when the situation is so dire.

            “What can we do with him?” Sam asks, finally deciding to stop hovering and kneel down next to Cas. “Bobby’s out, that’s the first place the angels will look.”

            Dean just stares back at him helplessly, as Cas groans quietly and passes out. Dean’s so distracted by this new development that he doesn’t see Sam’s eyes light up. “Dean, I’ve got it!” he dashes back over to his laptop and fires it up.

            It’s not until Dean hears Stiles’s amused voice say “Didn’t I tell you guys that I had homework to do?” that he figures out Sam’s plan.

            Derek can hardly believe that, just a week ago, he had actually thought that his life was turning around.

            Lydia Martin had woken up, and both she and Jackson were somehow immune to the bite, meaning that Derek had two less potential werewolves to worry about. He and Chris Argent had reached an uneasy truce, and Argent had, for all appearances, been very upset that his wife had gone behind his back to try and kill Derek. Scott had come to his house, reluctantly apologizing for his teenage angst and promising that he would listen to Derek so that he didn’t actually kill anyone on the next full moon.

            Stiles…Stiles had been a new constant in his life, all sly looks and tempting lips, and Derek had really thought it was going somewhere. After all, he had an angel’s permission, apparently.

            Then, two things had happened in very quick succession and had effectively plunged Derek’s life back into the shithole it had inhabited since the fire. First, Chris Argent’s father, a cruel old man who reminded Derek of Kate, had come to Beacon Hills, and the peace with Chris had effectively ended.

            Second, a local man had been murdered, in a way that suggested the perpetrator wasn’t human, though the clean, almost surgical cut on the back of the man’s neck had ruled out werewolves.

            Derek had panicked. His instincts beating a tattoo in the back of his brain, he had done what any werewolf would have done in a stressful situation: relied on pack.

            Since the only person even remotely close to being pack was Scott, though, Derek had improvised a little.

            Now, he had three new teenage werewolves on his hands, Scott and Stiles were pissed, and he was fairly certain that Sam and Dean Winchester were going to come back to Beacon Hills to cheerfully murder him for disobeying their ‘stop turning people’ rule.

            All this contributes to why Derek is so confused when Stiles sprints into the abandoned train car he’s been using as a hideout (much as his family’s old house has sentimental value, it is neither discreet nor easily defensible) and begins using a can of red spray paint to draw symbols on the wall.

            Derek had been trying to train his new betas, and, since his idea of ‘training’ involves a lot of getting in touch with instincts, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd all turn to Stiles when he comes in and prepare to attack.

            Derek’s heart leaps into his throat, and he thinks he moves faster than he ever has before when he puts his body between the betas and Stiles, letting his eyes bleed into alpha red as he roars.

            When his betas are cowering in submission, Derek turns to Stiles, who doesn’t appear to have been fazed in the slightest by the almost attack. “Stiles, what the hell are you doing?” Derek asks, wanting to get straight to it.

            “Warding your creepy-ass new digs against angels,” Stiles says without missing a beat. “Nice décor, by the way. The half-torn up seats really have a certain _je ne sais quoi_.”

            That answer does not serve to make Derek any less confused. He forgets how it must sound to other people, people who haven’t met Cas, until Isaac, who, as the first person he turned, has just a bit more control than Erica or Boyd, asks “Angels?” He sounds incredulous as he drags himself to his feet, cuts and bruises on his face rapidly healing themselves. “Are you on something?”

            “Oh, right, you weren’t there,” Stiles says. He’s finished up the first symbol, a rather sloppily drawn hexagon divided on the inside into several triangles, each of which has a little squiggle in it. It doesn’t look like much, but Derek can feel its power, the little tingles on his skin that he’d felt when he first met Cas. From the way his betas are twitching, Erica even going so far as to scratch her own arms, they feel it too, although they can’t know what it is.

            Their confusion isn’t Derek’s priority right now. “ _Why_ are you warding the place against angels?” he asks, crossing his arms and attempting to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Stiles is already angry enough, Derek doesn’t need to provoke him.

            Stiles turns around to look Derek in the eyes for the first time since he’d entered the car. “It’s Cas,” he says, dead serious. “I didn’t really get the details, but apparently he’s somehow not an angel anymore, and Sam and Dean need somewhere to stash him while they find a way to angel him up again.”

            A bolt of blind panic goes through Derek. “They’re coming _here_?” he growls. “They already tried to kill me once, what the hell do you think they’ll do when they see them?” he gestures to Erica, Isaac and Boyd.

            Stiles’s eyes are sharp. “Maybe you shouldn’t have turned them in the first place.” He pauses, letting his words sink in, then heaves a sigh. “Look, I didn’t _tell_ them about your new puppies, and as long as you keep them away from Sam and Dean, they’ll never find out. You know, this could be a good thing. Cas may not be able to come over all smitey anymore, but he’s apparently been alive for _millennia_ – he’s gotta have some idea what we’re up against, here.”

            The little bit of warmth Derek feels at the word ‘we’ is quickly extinguished when Erica, who has apparently had enough of being out of the loop, snaps “Are you both crazy, or are you just trying to fuck with us? There’s no such thing as angels.”

            “Up until a few days ago, I thought there were no such things as werewolves, either,” Isaac points out.

            Derek nods. “Remember those hunters I told you about before I turned you?”

            “You forgot to mention the angel,” Erica huffs.

            “I had other things to worry about than giving you a theology lesson,” Derek says.

            Stiles jumps in. “Ok, as much as I love witnessing your father-daughter arguments, I really need to finish warding. Stop distracting me.”

            “I didn’t agree to have him stay here,” Derek says, even though he already knows that he’s going to acquiesce. Something about Stiles has always made him want to argue a little, want to snipe and bicker. Not to mention the fact that it doesn’t exactly look good for him to be undermined by a sixteen-year-old human in front of his new pack.

            “Not in so many words,” Stiles says. He’s gone back to his spray painting, making what looks like an identical shape to the first, just a little smaller. “But if you don’t want me to introduce Sam, Dean, and their brand new knowledge of wolfsbane bullets to your pack, you’ll agree.”

            And, well. Derek can’t really say anything about that.

            Pasadena’s only about a four hour drive away from Beacon Hills, which is good, because all of Dean’s instincts are shouting at him to get Cas somewhere safe, _fast_. Cas is still out, has been for the last few hours, and Dean’s in the backseat of the Impala with him, keeping an eye on the steady rising and falling of his chest.

            Sam, from where his giant body is all crunched up in the driver’s seat (Dean had insisted that he not move the seat back, to allow Cas more room), has been giving Dean pointed little looks for basically the whole drive. Incredibly enough, it seems as though Sam _still_ hasn’t caught on to the fact that Dean and Cas are sleeping together, even after Dean had done something as uncharacteristic as forgo his driving privileges to babysit the sleeping lump of former angel.

            Really, if Dean was a nicer person, he would have told Sam about it after the time that Cas had given him a sloppy and enthusiastic blowjob against an alley wall in St. Louis, but Dean’s actually kind of enjoying how the ordinarily intelligent and intuitive Sam has really been comically freakin’ oblivious about the whole thing.

            Dean knows he’s not going to get out of this without Talking About His Feelings, though, knows that as soon as Cas is taken care of and out of earshot, Sam’s going to corner him and project earnestness and concern at him until he cracks and admits what’s going on.

            As Dean’s thinking up stories he can tell Sam that will put him off from ever asking about he and Cas again after the original conversation (he thinks the thing with whipped cream and a knife handle in the motel room bed that Sam later slept in on that Skinwalker hunt in Buffalo should do the trick nicely), Cas begins to stir, and eventually blinks awake.

            “Dean?” he asks, voice even more gravelly than usual and normally clear blue eyes hazy with exhaustion. “Where are we going?”

            Dean tries to tamp down on the rush of affection in his gut. “Hey Cas. We’re gonna take you to Beacon Hills, hide you there for a while to get the dicks off your trail, alright?”

            Cas’s eyes focus a little bit more. “Beacon Hills?” he asks. “The place with the werewolves, right?”

            “That’s right.” Without really thinking about it, Dean tangles one of his hands with one of Cas’s. That’s not really what they do, not really what Dean has ever done, but damnit, he was worried, ok?

            Sam inserts himself into the conversation. “Feelin’ alright, Cas?” he asks, worried puppy dog eyes roving over what he can see of Cas in the mirror.

            “Eyes on the road, Sammy,” Dean snaps.

            “Thank you for your concern, Sam,” Cas says. “I feel strange. Tired. Groggy. Confused. It’s as though I’ve lost one of my senses. But I will live.”

            He describes his symptoms like he’s talking to a doctor, not a concerned friend, and Dean doesn’t even try to quell the affection this time.

            “That’s good,” Sam replies softly, focusing on the road once again. “We’re only about an hour and a half outside Beacon Hills; try to get some sleep, ok?”

            “I don’t like sleep,” Cas says. The way he burrows his head a little deeper into the leather seat behind him and allows his eyes to slip closed contradicts his words. “It feels like a waste of time.”

            Dean chuckles softly as Cas’s breaths even out again. The Impala glides smoothly over the highway, speeding past scenery that Dean can’t make out in the darkness, and he thinks Sam had the right idea as he slips into his own sleep, joining Cas.

            It’s a weird situation, Stiles decides, the three of them seated here like an odd little werewolf welcoming party. Well, _he’s_ not a werewolf, but the sentiment still stands.

            After he’d told Derek that Sam and Dean were coming, Derek had insisted on being there to greet him, arguing that Cas is going to be staying at his place (though, Stiles supposes, Derek has a lot of nerve claiming the subway car for himself, even if no one else was using it).

            Derek had gotten his puppies to agree to be elsewhere while the hunters were in town, and he had decided that they should meet in the café where they had gotten breakfast the last time, insisting on referring to it as ‘neutral territory’, as though they’re in ‘Nam or something, not an inconsequential little California town that happens to be up to its ears in werewolves.

            Scott’s been whining for the last week about how he didn’t get to meet Sam, Dean, and Cas, so he’s decided to put his animosity with Derek aside for the moment in favor of meeting hunters who don’t actually want to kill him, as well as a former angel.

            All three of them are sitting in a booth, lined up, in unspoken agreement, along one side. Stiles thinks that it’s so that they can present a united front or something, but he thinks they look more like they’re about to conduct a job interview, and besides, the whole united front thing is undermined by the fact that Scott and Derek keep shooting each other hostile looks when they think the other isn’t paying attention.

            Stiles, who’s squashed in between them in order to prevent the inevitable werewolf confrontation and therefore save the diner’s delicious pancakes, is extremely nervous. Yeah, he’s pissed at Derek for going back on his word and turning more people but, as much as he might joke about it with Scott, he doesn’t actually want Derek to die, and he can’t shake the feeling that Sam and Dean will somehow know, just by looking at Derek, what he’s done.

            As the waitress comes around to refill their drinks (Derek’s black coffee, Scott’s orange juice, and Stiles’s chocolate milk), stopping to give a nod when Stiles thanks her by name, the bell over the door jingles.

            Stiles looks up, and there they are, in all their six foot plus, intimidating glory, Sam and Dean Winchester, flanking Cas like a pair of bodyguards.

            Stiles has seen plenty of scary things in the last few months – alpha werewolves, crazed hunters, the object of his endless schoolboy crush bloody and lifeless on the lacrosse field – but these three people scare him more than all of those things combined. Even though he’s developed a rapport of sorts with Sam and Dean, even though he’s seen them relaxed, eating, and laughing loudly at Stiles’s antics, there’s still something about them that makes him want to panic. Maybe it’s the casual way they talk about what they’ve been through, the things they’ve seen – things like demons and vampires, the _fucking Apocalypse_ , the fact that all three of them have technically come back from the dead at least once. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s seen what they can do, what they _will_ do, dug the bullet out of Derek’s chest that would have killed a human instantly. Maybe it’s the way that they’re constantly aware of their surroundings, in a way no other person, even Chris Argent, is.

            In any case, they’re scary, and at no point has this been as evident as it is right now. Dean especially, looking around the diner with a small frown, one hand inconspicuously at his belt and the other resting possessively on Cas’s back, is clearly not someone to mess with.  

            Of course, this means Scott, who’s got a bleeding heart and a hero complex a mile wide, coupled with a surprisingly absent sense of self-preservation, chooses this moment to lean over and whisper, far too loudly, “So, which one’s the angel?”

            Immediately, three sets of eyes snap over to their table. Sam, to his credit, attempts a smile, though his eyes are still worried. Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother, instead choosing to fold his arms over his chest and glare at their table like he’s trying to bore a hole in Scott’s head with his eyes.

            Scott, who only knows how dangerous these people are due to Stiles (who may have exaggerated things like this in the past. Y’know, for effect), looks a lot less fazed by this fact than Stiles is. Judging by the way Derek’s fingers tighten on the table, he concurs with Stiles’s opinion on this situation.

            Cas is the first one to break the tension. “That would be me,” he says quietly, stepping towards their table. Even though he seems different, somehow diminished from the first time Stiles had seen him, the evidence of what he is – was – is all over him, from the way he stands just a bit too straight to the way the friendly smile looks slightly out of place on his handsome, stubbled face.

            Scott seems to have realized that he’s put his foot in it. He’s a little cowed when he answers “Oh. Hi, I’m Scott,” but he keeps eye contact, which is more than Stiles can say for his own first meeting with Cas.

            “The other werewolf?” Dean interrupts, eyes sharp on Scott, before Cas can say anything. Scott looks significantly more afraid now, not used to outright hostility like Dean’s exuding on his first meeting with someone.

            “Dean,” Sam chides. “You’re making a scene.”

            Dean scoffs, but the three of them come to sit down in the booth, mirroring Stiles, Scott, and Derek’s positions, Sam and Dean flanking Cas.

            The waitress comes over and takes the newcomers’ orders. Sam smiles politely at her, while Dean ignores her appreciative eyes and simply grunts out “Coffee,” not taking his eyes off Scott.

            When they’ve finally gotten rid of the waitress (Cas, who presumably hasn’t had to eat up until now, takes quite a long time to decide on his breakfast of hot chocolate and a short stack), Dean begins. “Just so you know, I’m not happy about this situation, and we’re only here because we have no other choice. No offense, ‘cause you guys seem like nice kids, aside from the…furry little problem, but if we didn’t have to look for Cas’s grace, we wouldn’t be doing it.”

            “Dean,” Cas says. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

            “You lost your grace less than twelve hours ago, Cas,” Sam says earnestly. “We know that you can take care of yourself, but you’re weak right now.”

            Cas looks like he wants to argue, but concedes the point with a sigh and a tilt of his head. “Nevertheless, I trust them.”

            “We’ll find your grace soon, and then you can go kick everyone’s asses,” Dean says. The way he’s looking at Cas suggests that he’s forgotten there are other people at the table, and Stiles finds everybody else’s reaction to this fact fascinating. Sam looks resigned, Scott confused, and Derek…

            Derek looks knowing, and maybe even, underneath his customary sour face, happy. Stiles can’t help but wonder if he knows something that the rest of them don’t, if he knows whether or not they’re witnessing what Stiles thinks they are: a gay relationship between one of the toughest men he’s ever met and an angel of the Lord.

            Now, Stiles is far from a homophobe – just the opposite in fact, as he’s recently come to the conclusion that he likes boys just as much as he likes girls. He still has a sort of mental block on the subject, though, no matter how many gay men he gets to know. The idea of a grizzled, hardened man like Dean liking men, especially a man who, like Cas, is a representative of an extremely homophobic religion, is completely alien to Stiles.

            If he’s being honest with himself (which he tries not to do very often, because it invariably leads to a drop in self-esteem), he can acknowledge that this block is the reason that he hasn’t ever even tried to make something of the small crush he has on Derek.

            Stiles is one for pining, sure – he’s not entirely positive that he’s ever going to completely give up on Lydia, no matter how caught up she is on King Douchebag Jackson – but he’s never been one for pining _silently_. He figures that since he pretty much makes an embarrassment of himself every day of his life, letting another person know that he’d like to date and also have sex with them isn’t too high of a risk.

            He hasn’t said anything to or about Derek though, going as far as lying to Scott to make him believe that Stiles still can’t stand being in the same room with Derek. This is for two main reasons: one, because Derek could actually kill him without breaking a sweat, and two, because the chances of Derek being attracted to men in general, and Stiles specifically, seem so slim as to be ludicrous.

            As he watches Dean and Cas interact, though, a small bit of doubt starts to wriggle into his mind for the first time. Before he can stop himself, Stiles finds himself blurting out, “Are you guys, like, together?”

            Dean whips his head around to give Stiles a glare that rivals one of Derek’s, and Stiles immediately remembers that Dean can kill him just as easily as Derek can. Oops.

            “Well, I wasn’t gonna bring it up in mixed company,” Sam says wryly. “But I’ve been wondering the same thing.” He has this wounded look on his face as he speaks, and Stiles is impressed, because Sam’s puppy dog eyes are even more effective than Scott’s, which is saying something, since Scott could, actually, be called a puppy.

            Sam’s words cause Dean to turn his glare away from Stiles and onto his brother, which makes Stiles huff out a breath of relief.

            From his left, Derek hisses “Why are you such an idiot?” at Stiles, just before Cas speaks up, his voice still serene despite Dean’s discomfort. “To answer your question, yes, we are together.”

            Dean deflates a little, as Sam’s face gets even bitchier. “Were you planning on telling me this?” he asks, exasperated. “Since when do you even like men?”

            “Technically, I am a supernatural creature who just happens to possess the body of a human male,” Cas says. He sounds supremely unconcerned about the strife between Sam and Dean that he’s just pretty much caused, and if Stiles looks closely, he can even see the beginnings of a smile playing around Cas’s chapped lips.

            “I was sort of waiting for you to figure it out on your own,” Dean admits. He sounds both defensive and sheepish at the same time, a tone that Stiles is used to, as it’s a favorite of Scott’s. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

            “How -” Sam stops and shakes his massive, shaggy head in disapproval. “It’s not important, we’ll discuss it later.”

            Dean shoots Stiles a look that clearly says ‘thanks a lot, kid,’ even as Stiles is trying to stifle a laugh at how much Sam sounds like a parent.

            There has apparently been too much frivolity for Derek, Enemy Of All That Is Fun. “Are we done here?” he asks, body tensing up next to Stiles as though he wants to leave already. “We know what we need to do: keep him safe, not let anyone find out that he used to be an angel, keep him in wards. Do you really need to stick around?”

            Dean, Sam, and Cas, all look slightly taken aback at Derek’s rudeness, and Stiles is reminded of how he’d warmed up to all of them the last time they’d met. Stiles gets it, gets that Derek is concerned that either himself, Stiles, or Scott (to be realistic, it would probably be Scott) will accidentally say something about what he’s been up to, and put a target smack dab back on Derek’s head.

            Even so, acting so weird and stiff is a good way to make them suspicious, so Stiles jumps in. “What Derek’s poor social skills _mean_ to say is that we should probably get Cas inside those wards as soon as possible.” Stiles congratulates himself for such a good save, even as Scott stifles a laugh to his right. Stiles has no compunction about ramming his elbow into Scott’s ribcage, knowing it won’t even leave a bruise.

            “We should check the place out before we leave,” Dean says gruffly, looking relieved now that his sex life is no longer the main topic of conversation.

            “Dean,” Cas says, a warning in his voice.

            “Cas is right, Dean, we should get going. That grace won’t find itself.” Sam raises one hand to signal to their waitress.

            Cas and Dean appear to have some sort of conversation with only their eyes. It fascinates Stiles, but at the same time causes a tug of sadness deep in his belly, because it reminds him of the way his mom and dad used to interact with each other, the way they were so in tune that they didn’t even need words to communicate.

            Stiles has always wanted something like that, and even though he’s still young, he’s starting to doubt he’ll ever find it.

            Finally, Dean huffs and rolls his eyes and slouches back against the booth, at the same time that Sam manages to get the waitress’s attention.

            Stiles is curious by nature, and he has been wondering where Sam and Dean get their income from, whether they sell guns like the Argents or find some other way to get by. He’s suspected the latter, because the amount of traveling they do can’t be really conducive to selling, but it’s confirmed when Stiles catches the name on the card.

            Though it is, of course, possible that ‘Sam and Dean Winchester’ are themselves aliases, Stiles is pretty sure that neither of them is named ‘Tzvei Menahem’, and his dad’s had to deal with enough credit card fraud over the years that he knows it’s pretty illegal for them to take out a card under a fake name.

            Stiles has done enough morally suspect things since Scott became a werewolf that he doesn’t feel any remorse letting it pass by, though.

            Despite Dean’s earlier reluctance to leave the newly human Cas alone in the company of two werewolves and one teenager with ADHD, he appears to know when to give up a lost cause, and follows Sam out of the diner and to their sweet car with only a quick glare at Stiles, Derek, and Scott, and another meaningful look exchanged with Cas

            As the bell over the door of the diner rings out Sam and Dean’s departure, an uncomfortable silence falls over the table, until Scott, in typical Scott fashion, asks “So what the hell do we do now?”

            Dean feels a little more in control on the ride back to Pasadena than he had on the ride to Beacon Hills, partially because he’s driving, and partially because he has assurance that Cas is, if not safe, exactly, then at least shielded from the largest of his problems.

            However, he’s still on tenterhooks, because he knows that, sooner or later, Sam won’t be able to resist the temptation any longer, and will begin the interrogation about him and Cas.

            It’s not like Dean’s ashamed of it, exactly – despite the fact that he’d considered himself completely heterosexual before Cas (though, in hindsight, he’s able to admit that he’s experienced attraction to men in the past), the hunting life doesn’t leave much room for discrimination, because, frankly, anyone that’s not actively trying to kill a hunter is generally considered a good person, regardless of sex, race, or sexual orientation, and so Dean’s Big Gay Freakout had been mercifully short lived.

            It’s just that…Sam has this way of making Dean feel like he’s done something wrong, even when he hasn’t, and in this case, he actually has done something wrong, at least in deciding not to tell Sam for such a long time.

            Sam also does this thing where he lets his resentments fester, trying to make Dean crack, instead of actually bringing up what they are both thinking about.

            Dean’s rather impressed with how long he’s managed to hold out this time, because they’re less than an hour away from Pasadena when Dean finally turns down the Sabbath playing over the Impala’s speakers and says “C’mon, Sam, just let me have it, alright?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says, not looking up from where his eyes are glued to the IPad he’d insisted they buy (or rather, insisted ‘Sahak Barsamian’ buy) so he could research on the go.

            “Tell me I’m a hypocrite. Talk about how the root of all our problems is the way we don’t talk to each other. Ask me when I started screwing guys. Say whatever it is you’ve been dying to say for the last four hours,” Dean’s voice gets incrementally louder throughout his speech. “Just don’t leave me hanging here, man.”

            Sam sighs, but finally closes the cover of his IPad. “Dean, what you choose to do in your spare time isn’t any of my business,” he says. “To be honest, I’m just glad that you haven’t been telling me every little detail of your sex life lately.”

            Dean had, at one point, taken great delight in regaling Sam with tales of his one night stands, so he can’t exactly argue the point. “But what about the hypocrisy thing,” he asks, unable to believe that he’s going to get out of this so easy. “Don’t you wanna get me on that?”

            Sam shrugs. “I think Cas has been on our side long enough for me to trust him. Besides, as long as it’s just sex -” he breaks off and shudders. “ _not_ that I really want to think about you two having sex – then it’s not really comparable to Ruby and I, is it?”

            Dean has to concur, because, as far as he’s aware, Cas hasn’t been feeding him any angel mojo, or whatever. Unless it’s in his saliva or jizz or something, which is not a thought Dean is comfortable with having.

            Sam ignores the grossed out face Dean is sure he’s making and continues. “Look, I can’t say I’m not a little hurt that you wouldn’t tell me, but I get it, alright? It’s fine, and _we’re_ fine, and what we need to concentrate on right now is getting Cas’s grace back so that heaven itself doesn’t fall apart on us, alright?”

            Dean gives a gruff nod, and they ride in silence for a few seconds. It had been late when Cas had gotten in, and they’d spent pretty much all of the previous night on the road. It’s coming up on noon now, the California sun harsh in the late spring sky, and Dean is grateful for an upbringing of interrupted sleep, because without it, he’d certainly have spaced out by now, and probably crashed the car.

            “There’s something I’m still wondering, though,” Sam says thoughtfully. He’s gone back to his IPad, frowning at the little screen like it can speak up and answer all his questions. “How did Cas know where to find us? Did he just get insanely lucky, or are the marks on our ribs not working properly?” Sam looks up to level his worried eyes at Dean, who’s determinedly staring at the road ahead of him.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam crack a smile and he curses, not for the first time, what a smart little shit Sam is.

            “You’ve been praying to him, haven’t you?” Sam says, grin spreading to cover his entire stupid face. “Whispering little love notes before bed, huh?”

            Dean doesn’t move his eyes from the road, just reaches over and cranks the volume of the music back up. As Ozzy’s voice fills the car, singing about crazy trains, and Sam bursts into gently mocking laugher, Dean can allow the last of his worries about this changing things between he and Sam to slip away.

            He’s totally going to get Sam back for this later, though.

            Scott and Stiles want to accompany Cas back to Derek’s place after the diner, but Derek’s had enough of their interference already, and it’s barely even nine a.m.

            He manages to shake them off by reminding them that they have lacrosse practice in a little bit (Derek has no idea why so many of his allies are on that damn team. Maybe it preys on low self-esteem, same as him).

            This means that Derek’s alone, with a being as old as time itself looking placidly out the passenger side window of the Camaro.

            Ever since his first meeting with Cas, Derek’s been reading up on the Bible in what portion of his spare time isn’t spent worrying about all the things that have it out for him. Opening the giant, dog-eared tome reminds him of being a kid, though it is, of course, not the same one that had graced the Hale family bookshelf before the fire.

            Most of his family hadn’t been very religious, more concerned with the supernatural things they could see, rather than those they couldn’t, but in that big a group, there was bound to be someone who believed.

            In the Hale family, pre-fire, that person was Peter’s wife, a fiery redhead called Thea from a pack out east. Far from the stereotype of the Bible thumper, Thea had been moderate in her beliefs, and able to respect that not everyone shared them. She had to be, really, considering that Peter was as atheist as they came.

            Some of the younger children, though, especially Derek’s youngest sister, Cora, had been interested in the story (but Cora was interested in everything: a brighter, more inquisitive person, Derek had never known, except perhaps Stiles), and Thea used to pull Cora up on her lap and open up her own Bible, with the gold-trimmed pages, and read the stories to Cora, stopping to point out which lessons were good and bad, which ones still applied to the world today and which were the products of the men of the time inserting their own fallibility and prejudice into the word of God.

            Derek had hated it, then, had hated when Cora had pulled on his hand and pleaded with her big brown eyes for him to stay and listen, but now, six years after Cora, Thea, and the little life inside Thea (she’d been four months pregnant, it would have been Peter’s first child and that, more than anything, is why nothing Peter had done in the past six months really surprised Derek) had all burned to death, Derek thinks he would do anything to hear Thea’s warm voice pointing out the troubles with the parable of Lot.

            Anyway, Derek had paid special attention to the mentions of angels in the Bible, the ones he’s always thought had been metaphorical. The stories of Michael, Lucifer’s Fall, the announcement of Gabriel, Seraphim, Nephilim, Cherubim, all fancy and directly contradicting the stories of Sam, Dean, and Castiel.

            (“See, angels have to ask permission, to use a person’s body, which is the only reason the world isn’t ash right now,” Dean had explained. “The Apocalypse was supposed to be Michael and Lucifer’s pissing contest, part two, and they were gonna use me and Sammy to do it. Make no mistake, God is gone and the majority of the winged bastards up there are exactly that, bastards, but Cas and the other good ones are trying their best to fix it.”)

            So Derek isn’t really sure what to believe, but he’s inclined to think that Thea was right, and the Bible is just stories and guidelines, because there’s a gay angel in his car who hasn’t seen fit to smite him yet, despite all he’s done wrong.

            Much like the first time they’d met, the silence between Derek and Castiel is comfortable, the way it can only be between two people used to keeping to themselves. It seems that the loss of angelic power hasn’t really softened Cas’s perceptiveness, though, because right as they’re pulling into the parking lot next to the abandoned subway train, Cas says, “Something’s wrong,” in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

            “A lot of things are wrong,” Derek replies, parking the car and sliding out of the driver’s seat. “Do you have any things with you?”  
            Cas frowns. “I suppose I will be in need of human amenities, now,” he says. “It’s been such a long time since I was mostly human, I’d forgotten.”

            Derek remembers the story of the Apocalypse, how Cas’s power had dwindled day by day as he was cut off from the Host, and he’s suddenly grateful that he won’t have to deal with someone experiencing humanity for the very first time.

            After all, it’s not like Derek is exactly great at being human.

            “I will worry about that later,” Cas decides, falling into step alongside Derek as Derek leads him inside the subway car. “Right now, you should tell me what’s wrong.”

            “Why?” Derek asks, belligerent, and he knows he’s pressing his luck, knows he may be in for a smiting when Cas gets his power back, but he can’t help it. He’s always disliked people getting into his business.

            “Because I can help you,” Cas says simply, not rising to Derek’s bait. “Because you’re hiding something. Because I’m going to find out what it is, sooner rather than later, just by virtue of being in close quarters with you.”

            Derek sighs, a rush of air going out of his lungs, and yeah, he hates people getting into his business, but he hates the situation he’s found himself in even more, and, if he’s being honest with himself, it might just be easier for everyone involved for Sam and Dean to just kill him and take over the job of saving everyone themselves. He takes a deep breath, refilling his lungs, and meets Cas’s knowing blue eyes, surrounded by laugh lines that he didn’t create. “I’ve done something stupid,” he confesses.

            Cas meets his gaze calmly. “You turned more people.” It’s not a question, and Derek can already tell that he’s going to get very tired of Cas’s apparent ability to read him like a book, even without angelic powers.

            “We’re all in danger,” Derek says, feeling the panic and anger that’s always on his mind rise just a little closer to the surface. He gets up and begins to pace, covering the length of the car in one-two-three large steps, while Cas remains perched on the very edge of a subway seat, looking more like a bird than a human, following Derek with his eyes. “There’s another hunter after us, one of the unreasonable ones, and our truce with the Argents is pretty much broken. Meanwhile, the killings have started again, and we don’t know what’s causing it, except that it’s not human and not wolf.”

            “So you needed to create a pack,” Cas says. “It’s in your nature.”

            Derek is brought up short by his words. He’d been expecting fire and brimstone, not understanding. “Yes,” he says, and though he tries to keep impassive, tries not to let his surprise show on his face, he knows he fails, because Cas cracks a smile.

            “You forget that I am not human,” Cas says. “Sam and Dean are my…friends, and I will always stand by their side. But they tend to think in absolutes. About some things.”

            “So, you’re not going to get them back here to kill me?” Derek asks, disbelieving.

            “You remember the story about how angels obtain their vessels, right?” Cas asks. “How we have to ask permission to inhabit a willing human being? While some angels may be inclined to hypocrisy, I am not one of them and, as far as I am concerned, as long as you obtained their permission, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

            A load of tension releases from Derek’s shoulders. “The first one was being abused by his father,” he says, suddenly desperate for Cas’s approval. “The second had epilepsy, and the bite cured her completely. The third just wanted a pack. I told them all of the risks: the hunters, the loss of control. They wanted it anyway.”

            Cas nods. “I believe you,” he says, and it’s not until that moment, when he hears Cas’s heartbeat, slow and steady, that he realized that he hadn’t been able to hear a heartbeat when Cas was an angel.

            “Will you help us?” Derek asks, his voice quiet because he’s attempting to keep the sudden, wild hope out of it.

            Cas smiles. “I’d be happy to.”

            Sam and Dean check into the same motel that they’d stayed in the night before, and the pinched looking woman behind the desk shoots them a suspicious looks, clearly recognizing them. Luckily for Sam and Dean, she’s apparently the kind of woman that easily falls prey to Dean’s charm, and with a few well timed remarks, Dean has her giggling and forgetting all her suspicions.

            “I feel like some kinda whore,” Dean complains as they walk away from the desk. He shudders. “Christ, she wasn’t even hot.”

            “Good thing the husband wasn’t here, huh?” Sam says. “I’m sure he would’ve kept you on a short leash.”

            Dean shoots Sam his best unimpressed look and shoulders into the room, collapsing on the bed closest to the door. “Shut up, bitch,” he says. “When’s the last time you even got laid?”

            “Looks like you’re the bitch now,” Sam says, smug smile growing. “The whipped bitch.”

            Dean throws his left shoe and hits Sam in the side of the face. Not like he could’ve missed, with a target that big.

            Sam yelps, and the two of them spend a few minutes doing some harmless roughhousing, laughing as they grapple with each other to get the upper hand.

            It’s nice, spending time like this with Sam, but the lack of sleep they’ve both gotten over the past day, as well as the worry that won’t leave the back of Dean’s mind, causes the play-fighting to be short lived.

            Sam collapses on the bed next to Dean, winded. “Think we’ll be able to pull this off?” he asks quietly. “We’re not exactly used to playing fetch with angel grace.”

            “We did it once before,” Dean points out.

            “That was all due to luck, and you know it,” Sam says. “Anna’s grace landed in a populated enough area that people noticed the giant fucking tree growing overnight, and it was there for long enough that a lore developed. Cas just fell _yesterday_. Even if someone noticed it, it’s hardly going to be in the papers.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean says. “Hell, we stopped the goddamn Apocalypse, this should be a piece of cake.”

            He can tell than Sam sees right through his false bravado, and as the two of them settle in for a quick midday nap, Dean starts a prayer to Cas, before remembering he won’t be able to hear it, this time.

            In short order, Derek has every person in Beacon Hills who: a) knows about werewolves, and b) might possibly be on his side, assembled inside the subway car.

            Erica’s in one corner by herself, all flowing blonde hair and sneers. She keeps alternating between examining her nails, aloof, and shooting Cas curious glances from beneath her eyelashes.

            Boyd is positioned a few seats away from her, massive arms crossed over his chest, calm and unimpressed.

            Scott and Allison are standing near the door. Despite the fact that Scott’s sweaty from lacrosse practice, they’re holding hands. Allison is clearly nervous, and the hand that’s not holding Scott’s, her right, keeps twitching as though she’s wishing for a weapon in it. She also keeps scanning the room with her eyes, and the whole picture reminds Derek so much of Kate that he can’t stand to look at her for more than a second at a time.

            Stiles stands a little bit behind Scott and Allison, giving them space while at the same time making sure everyone knows he’s with them. He’s sweaty as well, even sweatier, in fact, than Scott, due to the fact that he’s human. As Derek watches, Stiles lifts the bottom of the t-shirt he’s wearing in order to wipe some of the sweat off of his face, and Derek only has to take one look at the lean and surprisingly well-muscled stomach and the trail of dark hair leading down to the waistband of Stiles’s shorts before he’s quickly looking away.

            Isaac’s standing a few feet away from Scott, Stiles, and Allison, as close to them as possible without being conspicuous. Derek’s seen the way Isaac looks at Scott, seen the hero worship and longing, and he can’t help but feel sorry for the kid.

            He knows that Isaac hates that, but he can hardly help it. It takes a lot to inspire Derek’s pity, given how absurdly shitty his own life has been, but Isaac manages it.

            Derek has even, through sheer intimidation, managed to make Jackson show up, despite his protests that, since the bite didn’t actually work, he shouldn’t have to be involved in this. He’s clearly sulking, on his own seat (everyone else is giving him a wide berth), showing a worse attitude than Boyd and Erica combined.

            Derek is secretly pretty damn glad that the bite didn’t take in Jackson, despite how worryingly rare that is, because he knows it would be only so long before he killed Jackson out of  annoyance if Jackson were a wolf.

            The ragtag little group is completed by Derek and Cas, both standing in the open space in the center of the car.

            Characteristically, Jackson is the first one to speak. “You couldn’t have rented out a hotel or something?” He asks coolly. “I can _feel_ the disease in this place.”

            Also characteristically, Derek ignores him entirely. “We’re here because, once again, there are several threats, both to us, and to the population of Beacon Hills in general. Allison, is there any information you can give us about your family?” He still finds it difficult to talk to Allison, but he forces himself to sound polite and non-confrontational. This is more important that his issues with her family.

            Allison hesitates, and Derek can see Scott’s hand tightening around hers, in a display of support. “His name’s Gerard,” she says. “He’s my grandfather on my dad’s side, which means he was Kate’s father, too.”

            “He’s not too pleased about her death, then?” Derek asks, unable to keep the contempt out of his voice.

            “Doesn’t seem to care too much about the Code, either,” Allison says. “I’ve been listening in as much as I can, and going along with whatever little ‘training’ exercises he dreams up. As far as I can tell, my dad disagrees with him, but won’t say so, and my mom agrees with him.”

            “How many men does he have at his disposal?”

            Allison shakes her head. “Hard to tell. They’re never all together. A dozen, at the very least.”

            Derek closes his eyes and breathes for a second. This is not good news. “Thank you,” he forces himself to say. “That’s very helpful.”

            “There’s one more thing,” Allison says hesitantly. “There’s this book. He rarely lets it out of his sight.”

            “Have you asked what it is?” That’s Stiles, eyes alight with curiosity now that they’re discussing his specialty, research.

            “Yeah, he won’t say.” Allison rolls her eyes and steps away from Scott a little bit. She seems to be gaining confidence the longer she speaks. The twitching in her fingers has stopped, and she’s standing just a little taller, speaking just a little louder, than she had been at the start. “Or actually, he _does_ say, but it’s like he’s talking in riddles. I think he’s allergic to straight answers, or something.”

            From next to Derek, Cas stifles a little laugh.

            “What did he actually say?” Stiles presses. “Try to remember, Allison, it could be important.”

            Allison thinks for a moment. “He said… ‘They hatch adders’ eggs, my dear’,” she shrugs. “I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

            Stiles frowns. “OK, maybe not so important.”

            “Moving on,” Derek says. “Try to find out more about that book if you can, and pay more attention to the men Gerard has, but he’s not our priority right now.” He pauses, making sure everyone is paying attention. “What _is_ our priority is whatever killed Isaac’s father.”

            Erica speaks up. “No offense, but why is that such a problem? Isaac’s dad was a dick.”

            Isaac snaps at her half-heartedly, but doesn’t protest. Scott frowns and shifts a little bit closer to Isaac.

            “It’s a problem because whatever it was, it wasn’t human,” Derek says impatiently, upset at himself for turning teenagers. “I have to know whether or not it poses a bigger threat.”

            “Besides, it’s not just Isaac’s dad anymore, Stiles says. “My dad just told me this morning that a local mechanic was crushed to death in a ‘freak accident’. But when they examined the body, it had a clean cut across the back of the neck. Same as Mr. Lahey.”

            There’s a general silence as everyone absorbs this fact. Derek feels his last little spark of hope that maybe whatever this creature is would stop at one murder, slip away.

            “That means the situation is even more urgent now,” Derek says. “Finding and stopping this monster is our first priority. Cas?”

            Cas, who has been silent but attentive throughout, meets Derek’s eyes, smirking slightly. “They hatch adders’ eggs,” he begins. “and weave their spider’s web; whoever eats their eggs dies, and the crushed egg hatches out a viper. Their webs cannot serve as clothing; they cannot cover themselves with what they make. Their works are works of iniquity, and deeds of violence are in their hands. Their feet run to evil, and they rush to shed innocent blood; their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity, desolation and destruction are in their highways. The way of peace they do not know, and there is no justice in their paths. Their roads they have made crooked, no one who walks in them knows peace.” He breaks off, absorbing the shocked silence of the room. “Isaiah 59:5 to 59:9. I may not have enough information to know what this monster is, but I believe this Gerard does. And I think that the book is the key to this information.”

            “A bestiary,” Stiles breathes, eyes wide.

            “So what, we think this thing is some sort of snake?” Scott asks.

            “We will find out, I suppose. In the meantime, I would like to take a look at those bodies.” He stands up, dusting off his trenchcoat. “I may not be an angel anymore, but I’ve been alive for millennia. I may be able to deduce something the coroners cannot.”

            “No one at the hospital’s gonna let you in,” Scott warns. “My mom told me they’ve upped security.” He gives Derek a hard look, and Derek feels a little bit of guilt. He can guess that the reason they’ve upped the security is because first Lydia, then Erica, went missing while under the hospital’s care. Though one of those disappearances isn’t directly Derek’s fault, he’s got to admit he’s played a part in them.

            Cas smiles, that otherworldly sense he still carries about him nearly disappearing. He fumbles in the trenchcoat pocket for a moment, then, cool as you please, pulls out a small badge. “I’ve come prepared for that. I travel with the Winchesters, after all.”

            Stiles looks closely at the badge and gives an impressed little whistle. “FBI? Think that’ll work?”

            “It always does,” Cas replies, and Derek doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to know another person in his life.

            Grace hunting is officially the most boring thing ever.

            Dean and Sam (ok, pretty much just Sam, but Dean likes to take equal credit in these things) had checked to see whether there was any record of a shooting star sighting on the night Cas Fell.

            Sure enough, there was a report, though it wasn’t too helpful, as the report was so vague about where the object had landed that it could be essentially anywhere in the big ass forest Sam and Dean are currently traipsing through.

            Now, Dean’s an outdoorsy kinda guy. Give him some sun and a beer and he’s happy, and he doesn’t even mind outdoor stakeouts, usually. If they were tracking a wendigo or something through the forest, he’d be fine, caught up in the thrill of the hunt and the knowledge that they could stumble upon a dangerous creature at any moment.

            However, walking through a perfectly tranquil forest while squinting at every single tree he passes is not Dean’s idea of a good time.

            It’s for Cas, he reminds himself as he walks away from yet another pine, and that’s the only thought that keeps him going. Despite how well he had adjusted to being human in the past, despite the fact that it would put the two of them on a more equal playing field, Dean does not like the idea of Cas being human full-time. It just seems _wrong_ somehow, like it would diminish the being that pulled him out of hell and died multiple times helping him save the world, only to return each time, battered and broken but alive.

            Sam, who’s ten feet ahead of Dean and has his face so close to the bark of a beech that his nose is almost touching it, calls back “Dean! I’ve just thought of something!”

            “What?” Dean shouts back, mind occupied with wondering if it had to be a tree, or if a shrub would do. Knowing Cas, his grace _would_ be a shrub: nondescript, ordinary, but hiding something immense and powerful, much like his chosen vessel.

            “Even if we manage to _find_ the grace, how the hell are we going to get it back?”

            “Ask the tree nicely?” Dean says sardonically, before the meaning of Sam’s words fully hit him. “Oh hell.”

            Sam abandons his beech examination and walks back towards Dean, hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped. “We probably should’ve asked him about this, huh?”

            “Bit hard when he was passed the fuck out,” Dean murmurs back, finding a dilapidated stump to rest on. “I guess I can call him, though I don’t know how much help he’s gonna be. You know how hard it is to get him to answer any question directly.” He pulls out his phone and begins dialing, hoping that Cas hasn’t left it on silent again.

            “You think maybe we need an angel to get it?” Sam asks as the phone rings. “Uriel got Anna’s grace back, remember?”

            “Literally all the angels we know are either dead or de-powered,” Dean reminds him. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly jazzed at the thought of meeting a new one.”

            Sam starts to answer, but Dean holds up a finger to halt him, because Cas has just picked up the phone with a gruff “Hello?”

            “Cas?” Dean says, getting up off the stump and beginning to pace back and forth, because he can never stay still while he’s on the phone. “Listen, we’re back in Pasadena, trying to figure out where the hell you touched down, but we just realized we’ve got no clue how to get your grace back, even if we find it.”

            There’s silence from the other end of the phone.

            “…You don’t know either, do you?”

            “Not exactly,” Cas admits. “It’s never come up before.”

            “You didn’t ask Uriel how he got Anna’s back?”

            “Uriel and I weren’t exactly…friendly by that point.”

            “Right.” Dean huffs out a breath and runs a hand over his spiky hair, hating that he’s about to ask this question. “Well, do you know anyone _else_ who might know?”

            “I know someone who may be able to find out,” Cas replies. “My greatest ally, Balthazar is, as far as I know, still an angel, and he has…connections. You should call him. He will want to know how I am, anyway.”

            It’s exactly what Dean has been dreading, Cas telling him to call down another dickless bastard, but they’ve got no other choice. “Alright, Cas, we’ll see what we can do. Everything ok on your end?”

            There’s a barely perceptible pause before Cas answers “Everything is fine, Dean.” It worries him, just a little bit, but much as his instincts tell him to get back there and help Cas _now_ , he does know Cas can take care of himself. “Alright. Well, just give me a ring if that changes anytime soon.”

            “Of course, Dean,” he can hear the gentle smile in Cas’s voice, and he has to consciously make himself not return it as he hangs up the phone and turns back to Sam, who has taken over his stump. “What’s the verdict?” Sam asks.

            “Cas wants us to get in touch with one of his friends. Says the guy can help us.”

            “Well, what are we waiting for?” Sam leaps off the stump. “Call him!”

            Dean has never tried praying to another angel besides Cas, and it feels weird as fuck. He doesn’t know what to say, because using the kind of joking antagonism he usually does with Cas probably isn’t a good idea.

            Dean clears his throat. “Hey, I pray to Balthazar. This is Dean Winchester, and we need your help. It’s about Castiel. We’re in a forest about twenty miles away from Pasadena. So…bye?”

            “Were you praying, or leaving a message?” Sam teases. 

            Before Dean can retort, a voice speaks up behind him with a drawling British accent. “So these are the humans that Cassy is so enamored with,” it says. The voice’s owner steps out from behind a nearby tree, fair-haired and with a clever, pointed face, though it’s pulled into an expression of mixed concern and disdain. “I thought you’d be taller.”

            “Balthazar?” Sam steps forward, one giant paw outstretched, seeming not to care about Balthazar’s (poor, given the fact that both Winchesters are actually quite tall) insult. “I’m Sam.”

            “I don’t really care,” Balthazar replies. “Where’s Cas?”

            Dean decides that he hates him. “Safe,” he replies, looming as best he can over Balthazar’s much shorter vessel.

            Balthazar raises an eyebrow. “Safe _where_?” he asks, speaking slowly, as though Dean is a child.

            “None of your business,” Dean retorts. “How do I know you wouldn’t sell him out to the other angels as soon as I turned my back?”

            In an instant, Balthazar is right in front of Dean, blue eyes blazing. “It is my _business_ , because I’ve known Castiel since before your pathetic little species even _evolved_. Now tell me where he is, or I’ll -”

            He’s interrupted by the sound of Dean’s ringtone (You Shook Me All Night Long, naturally). When Dean pulls the phone out of his pocket, he’s unsurprised to see Cas’s name on the caller I.D. “Cas, your friend’s a dick,” he growls into the phone in lieu of a greeting.

            “Yes, well,” Cas replies. “I may have forgotten to warn you that he’s a bit…protective.”

            Dean snorts, ignoring the way Balthazar keeps hissing “Let me talk to him!” into his ear. Balthazar, obviously, could take the phone away from Dean with no trouble at all if he wanted to, but it seems that Cas’s esteem for Sam and Dean is enough to keep him in check, at least when it comes to physical violence. “That’s one word for it, I guess.”

            “I apologize that he’s being difficult,” Cas says. “Let me speak to him for a moment.”

            Balthazar is all but bouncing on his toes in eagerness, now, and Dean makes a point of rolling his eyes as he passes the cell phone over, saying “It’s for you, asshole.”

            Balthazar snatches it away. “Cas?”

            Dean has often wondered why it is that most of the angels they meet are so much more competent with human things than Cas had been in the beginning. With some of them, like Anna and Gabriel, it makes sense, because they’d been living among humans for years. As far as Dean knows, though, Balthazar hasn’t, and he still handles the phone like a pro.

            As Balthazar talks on the phone – it sounds like he and Cas are arguing, and Dean is irrationally proud of the fact that Cas seems to be holding his own – Dean goes over to stand next to Sam.

            As if he’s reading Dean’s mind, Sam asks “Think this is a good idea?”

            Dean shrugs. “Wouldn’t be my first choice, but it looks like he’s all we got.”

            Balthazar hangs up the phone with a huff, and whirls back around to face Dean and Sam. “Alright, it looks like I’m stuck with you mud monkeys for the time being. Here’s how this is going to work: you listen to me, and don’t ask any stupid questions. In case you were wondering, all questions are stupid, in this case.”

            Dean smirks. “Good luck with that.” He’s fully planning on making use of the thirty plus years of experience he has in annoying people (Sam).

            From the look on Sam’s face, he agrees with Dean.

            Balthazar won’t know what hit him.

            Despite his earlier bravado, Castiel is nervous when he goes to the local hospital to do his investigating. He’s done this before, of course, but it had always been as the silent companion to Sam and Dean’s smooth-talking agents. In fact, the one time he’d been trusted with the slightest bit of responsibility, he’d messed it up.

            Part of him wants to seek assurance from Dean on the phone, but he’s never quite sure what the boundaries of their relationship are. Dean isn’t really good with emotions, and besides, he doesn’t like it when people cannot complete a simple job. In any case, Dean seems far too busy dealing with Balthazar - who has harbored a slight resentment towards the Winchesters for years, because he’s like a small child at times, cannot abide sharing his toys - to worry about what Castiel is doing.

            Castiel squares his shoulders back and strides into the hospital. He ignores the fluttering in his stomach and the clamminess of his hands and focuses on walking confidently, with purpose. As he draws level with the front desk of the hospital, he fingers the FBI badge in his pocket, doing his best to remember which is the correct way up.

            From behind the desk, a nurse squints at him suspiciously. “Can I help you?” she asks.

            The woman matches the description that the earnest young werewolf, Scott, had given Castiel of his mother and, hoping against hope that he has the right woman, Castiel walks up to the counter, pulls out the badge, and says, “Agent Osbourne, FBI.”

            For a moment, he’s convinced that the woman is going to reject his cover, is going to call security or the police and get him landed in jail. He misses the days where he could just walk in, unseen by human eyes, and take what he needed.

            After a moment, the woman gifts Castiel with an eye roll and a nod. Castiel wonders how Dean and Sam do it, make every person they come by believe them with just an easy smile. After all, every detail of his approach, down to the alias, he’d learned from the Winchesters, but he’s never seen anyone respond to _them_ with an eye roll.

            “Another one? God, you guys are everywhere,” the nurse says, but she comes out from behind the counter and extends a hand to Castiel. “Nurse McCall, call me Melissa, and you’re here to see Ben Abrams and Mr. Lahey, correct?”

            She is the right woman, then, and Castiel can’t help the sigh of relief he lets out. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

            Melissa gives him a smile, the first since she’s seen him, as she begins to lead him down a corridor. “Sorry for the third degree,” she says over her shoulder. “We’ve been _swamped_ the past few days. I’ve been living on coffee and determination.”

            Now that Castiel looks, he sees that Melissa does, in fact, look tired, pretty face haggard, with large bags under her eyes. “Well, hopefully, my department can get to the bottom of these murders, and give you a break,” Castiel says, and he means it.

            “I certainly hope so,” Melissa says. “This really isn’t a good reflection on Beacon Hills as a whole, you know. It’s usually so safe – before this all started a few months ago, we hadn’t had a murder in about six years.”

            Castiel can’t stop himself from asking “Since the Hale fire?”

            Melissa meets his eyes, her own sharp. “You friends with the guys who were here about a week ago, then?”

            “We are…colleagues,” Castiel hedges. He’d like to give their names, reassure Melissa that he does, in fact, know them, but Dean and Sam hadn’t thought it necessary to tell him which aliases they’d used. And why should they? As far as they knew, the trouble in Beacon Hills was over.

             As their conversation peters out, Castiel and Melissa draw level with a door. Over the past few moments, they’ve gone from the bright, sterile upper halls of the hospital to the dingier, lower parts, which no live patients will ever see.

             Castiel’s been in a morgue before – the time with the cupid had been memorable, to say the least – but the chill he feels up his spine is new, a product, he imagines, of his newly human body.

            “Looks like the coroner’s run off again,” Melissa says. “I’ll go get him, and he can explain what’s been going on; he knows more than I do, and besides, it’s time for my break.” She gives a little laugh, and Castiel can tell that what appears to be a brush-off is actually a joke, but he can’t help replying seriously.

            “Thank you, Melissa. And do try to get more rest.” He wants to say more, wants to reassure her that her son’s in good hands, because he knows that she has no idea what’s going on with Scott, but even if it were his place to say those things, they would probably only scare her.

            Regardless, she gives a genuine smile as she leaves, and Castiel hopes that he’s made her day at least a little better.

            He knows that he should probably wait until the coroner gets here, knows that in his newly human state he won’t be able to figure out what happened to the victims on his own, but either his own nature or so long traveling with Dean has made him impatient, so he goes over to the files, finds the one marked ‘Lahey, John,’ and begins to read.

            Due to the fact that he’d left a tiny little bit of his grace in, something that, to his knowledge, has never been done before and is only possible because he’s died and been resurrected so many times, his brain was unaffected by the Fall. As he reads over Mr. Lahey’s file, he understands the complicated medical jargon as easily as if it were a children’s book. He’s so immersed in his reading, absorbing every bit of information, that he doesn’t notice when the coroner comes into the room, staring at Castiel as though he’s grown an extra head.

            “…Agent Osbourne?” the coroner finally asks, and for the first time in his long, long existence, Castiel jumps in shock.

            He puts the folder down quickly, and he imagines that this is what human children must feel like when they’re caught with their hand in the cookie jar or peeking at their Christmas presents. “Yes, hello,” Castiel says. He sticks one hand out awkwardly, hoping to distract the coroner from the situation.

            The coroner is a weedy looking little man who has a nervous air around him, but he takes Castiel’s hand readily enough, giving him a bemused little grin. “I see you’ve started without me.”

            Castiel thinks fast. “Yes, well. I have some medical training.”

            “Oh, really?” the coroner asks absently, going over to the drawers on one of the walls that Castiel assumes contains the bodies. “What made you decide to be an FBI agent instead?” he locates the drawer he’s been looking for and pulls it out, showing a long form covered by a sheet. “Call me Rick, by the way.”

            Castiel’s a little thrown by the questioning. Certainly, people have accused him of being…less than forthcoming in giving out information, but he’s never been good at outright lies. It might even be said that he’s truthful to a fault. “I thought my skills would be better suited for law enforcement,” he says, evasive.

            “More of the adventurous type, then?” Rick asks.

            “You could say that.” Castiel hopes that Rick can take a hint, realize that he’s uncomfortable talking about himself, but it seems that Rick has spent so long in the company of dead bodies that he’s just grateful to have someone to talk to.

            “So, Osbourne, you have a first name?” Rick asks. His hand is on the sheet that’s covering up the corpse’s head, just resting.

            Castiel tries to come up with a false name, but fails. “Cas.”

            “Strange name,” Rick comments. “Least it’s not Ozzy.”

             Castiel thinks that he’s probably supposed to understand that joke, but he’s saved from any potential awkwardness by Rick finally deciding to do his job and uncover the corpse.

            It’s a middle aged man, mid-forties, Castiel would guess, with a long nose and graying hair pushed off his forehead. Castiel can tell that it’s John Lahey, can see the resemblance to Isaac around the mouth and chin.

           The most important thing he notices, though, is what had been described in such detached and professional terms in the file: the ugly, gaping wound in Mr. Lahey’s chest.

           “Cause of death was, well, _that_ ,” Rick says, gesturing at the wound. It looks like something that could have been done with claws, could easily have been done by one of the werewolves. Castiel experiences a moment of doubt, because he _doesn’t_ know these people that well, and it would be all too easy to believe that they’re lying to him about the cause of Mr. Lahey’s death.

            From what he can tell, any one of them would even have a motive.

            None of them has come out and said it, really, though Erica came close in the earlier meeting, but Castiel can read between the lines, can see Isaac’s flinch when someone’s voice gets too loud or the way he’s unusually wary of Castiel.

            “Looks like some sort of animal did it, right?” Rick continues. “Well, we had this local vet come in, see if he could tell what did it, and he says it’s no animal he’s heard of. The marks are too small, see; too precise. If it was a mountain lion, or a wolf, they would have slashed across the entire chest,” Rick makes a motion over Mr. Lahey’s chest, demonstrating what he means. “But this looks like the animal was more precise then this, went _up_ ,” he curls his hand into a claw and makes a quick stabbing motion upward. “Just in and out, pierced right into the heart and done. It must have been fast, too, cause there aren’t that many defensive wounds.” He grabs one of Mr. Lahey’s wrists and turns the arm over, showing that he only has one shallow gash on his arm.

            Not one of the wolves, then. “Could it have been a human?” Castiel asks.

            “Don’t see how, but Deaton – that’s the vet – seemed pretty adamant that it wasn’t an animal. I gotta say, it makes sense – why would any animal kill him just to leave him there?”

             “Maybe it felt threatened,” Castiel says. “Killing in self-defense, as it were. Most animals don’t particularly enjoy the taste of human flesh, after all.” Some monsters do, but Castiel’s been around the Winchesters long enough to know that he shouldn’t share this information with Rick.

             “I guess,” Rick shrugs. “But here’s the really weird thing.” Moving slowly, his hands gentle and professional on the corpse, despite his careless way of speech, Rick moves Mr. Lahey’s head to the side, exposing a long, thin gash on the back of his neck. “I didn’t think much of this at first, because it obviously didn’t kill him, but it was a completely fresh wound, and it doesn’t look like something an animal could even cause, does it? It’s like someone took a scalpel to him, for no reason that I can see. But that’s not the weirdest part.” Leaving Mr. Lahey exposed, lying out on the table with his stitched-up autopsy incisions (done carefully so they don’t bisect the wound), Rick pulls open another drawer, immediately next to Mr. Lahey’s. He’s clearly excited to show Castiel the results of his examinations, proud of his work, but he hesitates before removing the sheet over the next body. “You’re not squeamish, are you?” he asks.

            Castiel thinks back to when he’d killed his own brothers for Dean’s sake, stuck his blade in their throats and watched the light explode out of their eyes, watched them fall onto the ground, blackened scorch marks in the shapes of wings around them. “Not with all I’ve seen,” he says.

            Despite Castiel’s assurance, when Rick nods and uncovers the next body, he is horrified. He can’t tell exactly what happened to this kid – one of the few things Castiel can tell about him, besides that he’s male and blond, is that he’s very young – but it must have been horrific.

            He looks – _squished_ , is the only word for it. Most of his body is covered by scrapes and bruises, and Castiel can tell that most of his bones are broken. “What _happened_?” Castiel asks.

            Rick looks uncharacteristically somber. “His name was Ben Abrams. Local mechanic, just a few years out of high school. He was working on a car and was crushed underneath it.”

            That explains the injuries. “An accident?”

            “As far as the officers on scene could tell, the lift was working fine.”

            “So whoever killed him dropped a car onto him?” Castiel’s leaning towards a monster or human killer. No animal is capable of that kind of cruelty.

            “Yes, but look,” Rick picks up Ben’s wrist, like he’d done to Mr. Lahey earlier.

            “What am I supposed to be seeing?” Castiel asks after a moment.

            “ _Exactly_ ,” Rick says. He seems to have recovered a bit of his lightness. “You don’t see _anything_. Well, nothing that can’t be explained by the car, at least.”

            “He wasn’t tied up,” Castiel realizes.

            “Nope, and the car was still _on_ the lift, meaning that it wasn’t dropped quickly. It was lowered down onto him.”

            “So why didn’t he move away?”  
            Rick points Castiel’s attention to the head. “It was the poor guy’s torso that got the brunt of the car’s weight, so I was able to examine his head pretty closely, and there’s no evidence that he was knocked out. We did a full tox screen as well, and couldn’t find any drugs in his system.”

             “So you’re telling me that you don’t know why he didn’t move when he saw the car coming?”

             Rick shrugs. “The only things I could think of would be he either fell asleep, and is a really heavy sleeper, or he wanted to commit suicide in the most masochistic way possible. But I still haven’t told you the weirdest part yet.”

             Castiel’s not looking forward to the weirdest part. He’s been running possibilities through his mind ever since he first saw Mr. Lahey’s file, trying to think of the most ridiculously obscure creatures he can. He’s coming up completely blank, though.

             The ‘weirdest part’ turns out to be a bit anticlimactic, though, since Rick just turns Ben’s head to the side and shows Castiel that he has a long cut on the back of his neck, identical to Mr. Lahey’s.

             “…You don’t look surprised,” Rick says, brows furrowing.

             Right, Castiel’s not supposed to know about that. “I…spoke to the Sheriff, before coming here.”

             “Really?” Rick asks, his frown deepening.

             Castiel may not be the best at recognizing human emotion, but he knows suspicion when he sees it.

             He makes his excuses to Rick quickly, and, as he walks out of the hospital, he finds that he’s no closer to understanding the situation than he had been when he’d walked in.

            Despite the fact that they are no closer to finding Castiel’s grace at the end of the day than they were when they started, Dean is in a fantastic mood as they head back to the motel.

            Balthazar had stopped talking to them several hours ago, after Dean and Sam had accidentally-on-purpose trapped him in a holy fire circle for fifteen minutes, but before that, he had managed to unleash an impressive variety of swearwords on them, in both English and Enochian.

            Dean should probably be a bit worried about how much fun he’s having taunting Balthazar, actually. It might point to some unresolved issues he has with angels, how much satisfaction it gives him that he can be as much of a shit as he wants to Balthazar without danger of smiting.

            They stop outside the motel, and Balthazar turns to them, still glaring, with his arms folded across his chest. “I suppose I’ll go and try to gather some information while you’re sleeping,” he says. “I’ll probably sweep right in to save the day tomorrow, and then you’ll get all the credit for it.”

            “What’s the matter, Balthy?” Dean asks with a smirk. “Can’t read our minds?”

            “Not with those markings on your ribs, and you know it,” Balthazar snaps, before disappearing in a sulk.

            Sam has been having as much fun as Dean has all day, but right now he looks positively _gleeful_ , and Dean casts him a doubtful look as they get to their room, because that last taunt hadn’t exactly been his best work. “If you aren’t careful, your face’ll get stuck like that,” he says, instead of actually asking Sam what’s up.

            Looking at Dean seems to make Sam, almost impossibly, happier, and Dean is immediately put on edge, because Sam laughing over nothing so hard that he’s almost snorting, like he is right now, has never heralded good things for Dean.

            He just waits, sitting down in one of the chairs and putting on his best ‘Big Brother’ face. He knows from experience that asking questions right now will only make Sam laugh harder, and Sam laughing harder will only make Dean madder, and it’ll end with someone getting punched in the face.

            After a few seconds, Sam composes himself enough to say “Don’t tell me you didn’t _see_ it, Dean.”

            And oh, but Dean hates that like nothing else, when Sam acts like he knows something that Dean doesn’t. “ _See_ what? All I’ve _seen_ all day is a billion trees and a dickhead angel.”

            “And you didn’t think about why he was being such a dick to you?” Sam asks. He’s still wearing a superior little smirk, but he’s composed himself enough to drop into the seat next to Dean.

            “Because he’s an angel, and the angels have it out for me?” Dean tries.

            Sam shakes his head.

            “Dude, if this is one of the times where you won’t tell me something until I guess it, then I’m not playing. Fuck you, I’m going to bed,” Dean’s not actually serious, but this is the best way he’s found out to make Sam tell him something: pretend like he’s not interested.

            Dean heads into the bathroom, and just as he’s squeezing the toothpaste out onto his toothbrush, Sam calls “He’s _jealous_ , idiot,” from the other room.

            Dean frowns at his own reflection, toothbrush halfway to his mouth. “Jealous of what?” he asks, genuinely confused. “My good looks? My badass hunting skills? My fragile human body that he could destroy without lifting a finger?”

            “The fact that you have Cas?” Sam replies, imitating Dean’s sarcastic speech patterns, and the penny drops harder than any penny has ever dropped before.

            Dean just fucking bolts out of the bathroom, heedless of the fact that he’s still holding his toothbrush, which is now dripping toothpaste onto the motel’s cheap green carpet. It all makes sense now: the fact that Balthazar had focused on Dean from the beginning, the snippy little remarks about Dean getting the credit, how excited he was to talk to Cas on the phone.

            Dean wonders if Balthazar would’ve even showed up if he hadn’t said Cas’s name in his prayer, thinks about how Balthazar was there only milliseconds after he’d called. “You think he _wants_ Cas?” Dean asks Sam sharply.

            “Dude, I _know_ he wants Cas,” Sam replies. “I haven’t seen anyone more interested in the guy since, well, _you_.”

            “Do you think they ever – wait,” Dean says, breaking out of his thoughts to squint suspiciously at Sam. “If you knew I was interested, why were you so fucking shocked when you found out about us?”

            Sam waves him off. “I just wasn’t expecting you to get up the balls to actually _do_ anything about it.”

            And whatever, Dean’ll be pissed off about that later. He’s got more important things on his mind. “Do you think they ever had a _thing_? Cas and Balthazar?”

            “How the fuck should I know?” Sam asks, and Dean hates him for being reasonable right now. “Maybe. They have known each other for _millennia_ , apparently.” Sam’s smirking again as he says that last part, and Dean knows that Sam’s only trying to wind him up, but he can’t help but fall for the bait.

            “Fuck you,” he growls again, flipping Sam off for good measure before stomping back into the bathroom.

            Sam bursts out into a fresh wave of mocking laughter, but Dean ignores him, in favor of scrubbing his teeth with the neglected toothbrush like he can rub out Balthazar’s very existence by doing so.

            If Balthazar thought today was bad, then he’s in for a surprise, because tomorrow’s going to be all-out war.

            “You want me to do _what_?” Stiles asks, looking at where Scott and Allison are standing in front of him, hands clasped together and giving him twin pleading expressions.

            “We just need a _little_ distraction,” Allison says. “Five minutes. I know exactly where it is.”

            “Why can’t Scott do it?” Stiles asks. He’s aware that he’s whining, and that it’s not very attractive, but he feels like he’s justified right now.

            Cas had come back from the hospital yesterday, and given Derek a full report, which had then trickled down to Stiles via Scott, who had been reluctantly attending the wolves only meeting that Derek had insisted on having _after_ the normal pack meeting.

            (And upset that Derek wouldn’t tell him himself? _Nah._ Of course not. Stiles doesn’t care, not even a little bit.)

            Anyway, Cas’s visit hadn’t cleared much up, and the long and short of it was that they need to get Gerard’s bestiary and find out what the hell this thing is, or else Cas will call Sam and Dean, and Dean will probably sense something is wrong and come back to Beacon Hills because he’s an overprotective bastard, apparently.

            “What are you, a teenage girl?” Stiles had sniped, because he deals with stress with curly fries and sarcasm.

            Cas, as he’s known to do, had ignored Stiles entirely, talking to Derek. “You’ve seen how intelligent they are. If they spend more than a few minutes with you, they will find out, and they will not be as kind as they were last time.”

            Translation: don’t make me call my psycho boyfriend or he’ll come here and kill you dead.

            And Stiles doesn’t know about anyone else, but if last time was Dean being kind, he doesn’t want to see Dean’s mean.

            “We can’t risk Gerard finding out that Scott’s a werewolf,” Allison says earnestly. “He already suspects, and you’re human, so you won’t make him suspicious.”

            Stiles very much doubts that, because he seems to make most people suspicious just by existing. “Can’t you tell Scott where it is and _you_ distract him?” he asks, a desperate last-ditch effort.

            “Stiles, _please_ ,” Scott says. His eyes are wide and pleading, and Stiles is reminded of all they’ve been through together, how Scott always has his back, and _fuck_.

            “ _Fine_ ,” he sighs. “But that is the extent of my participation in this, you hear me? No using Stiles for bait, no Stiles coming in at the last minute to save the day. Done. _Finito_.” He knows even as he’s saying it that this will definitely not be the extent of his participation, and, from the look on Scott’s face, he knows it too. “After school, then?”

            “Thank you, Stiles,” Allison says, letting go of Scott’s hand long enough to give Stiles a warm hug. “Five minutes, I swear.”

            When he’s sitting in Allison’s kitchen a few hours later, surrounded by both of Allison’s parents _and_ her creepy grandfather, he resolves never to give in to Allison again, because it’s been at least ten minutes, and Allison’s showing no sign of being done.

            The plan had been simple: Stiles was to lurk outside Allison’s window, the way Scott sometimes did, though of course, Stiles, being a human, and a clumsy one at that, would attract the attention of her family. Then, when they had caught him and were giving him hell for perving on their daughter, Allison would go and grab Gerard’s bestiary from its safe in the guest room.

            Plans like this are always a lot easier to think through then they are to execute, Stiles is learning. He can’t tell which one of Allison’s parents he’s more scared of right now: sure, her dad has an arsenal of deadly weapons in his garage, but her mom looks like she’s about to kill Stiles with her bare hands.

            Gerard, though he’s in the room, is mostly just standing around looking creepy, which, as far as Stiles can tell, seems to be his M.O. He shouldn’t be surprised, really: this guy is half responsible for Kate Argent, of course he’s gonna be creepy.

            When they had first caught him, Stiles had gone with his first instinct, which was to babble out apologies and explanations as fast as he could, in hopes it would confuse them too much for them to get too angry. Since they’d frog-marched him into the kitchen, plopped him on a chair, and began to just stand there glaring at him, though, he hasn’t said a word, too afraid of digging himself even deeper into this hole.

            None of them has spoken either, which is unsettling. Stiles thrives on words, on the distractions they can cause, the information they can convey, the comfort they can bring.

            He doesn’t like silence.

            Finally, Mr. Argent speaks. “It’s Stiles, right? Scott’s friend?”

            Stiles gives a stupid little wave from his chair. “Yep, that’s me. Hi.”

            Mr. Argent looks unimpressed. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing outside my daughter’s window?” he asks, voice even.

            “Did Scott put you up to it?” Mrs. Argent asks, her voice decidedly less even, and Stiles is suddenly reminded that they both know about Scott, that either of them could spill the secret to Gerard at any moment. This was such a bad idea.

            Mr. Argent says, “Victoria,” a warning, and Mrs. Argent falls silent, though she’s still giving Stiles a look that suggests she wants to eat his soul.

            “Well,” Stiles says. “I couldn’t remember the homework for English class, and…”

            “Allison has a cell phone,” Mr. Argent says.

            “I lost mine?” Stiles tries.

            “It’s in your hand.”

            Stiles looks down at his right hand with vague surprise. He has it out because Allison is going to text him when she’s done. “Uhh…”

            Mr. Argent’s about to actually get going now, he can tell. “If you were spying on my daughter’s room, hoping to _peep_ through her window,” he begins, menacing. “Then I _guarantee_ you…”

            “Stiles!”

            Stiles has never been as happy to hear any sound ever in his life as he is to hear Allison’s voice right now. He wants to compose poems to it, maybe write a song.

            God, this must be what Scott feels like on a regular basis.

            Stiles shoots up out of his chair like he’s been shocked. “Allison, there you are! I was just looking for you.”

            “Allison,” Mr. Argent begins, but Allison is already dragging Stiles towards the front door. If Stiles had ever had any doubt that Allison could beat the shit out of him (he hadn’t), this is where those doubts would get shattered, because her grip’s like iron.

            When they’re out of earshot, Stiles leans in and whispers fervently “I could _kiss_ you right now.”

            “That would probably make things worse,” Allison points out. “Scott’s got the bestiary, I’ll deal with my parents, _go_.”

            Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice.

            Dean’s so fucking ready to mess with Balthazar the next morning, but when the guy shows up, he looks like someone’s shot his puppy, and Dean just doesn’t have the heart to.

            “What’s wrong?” Sam asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

            “My contacts have all let me down,” Balthazar sighs. “Not one of them – _not one_ – can tell me anything at all about how to find or recover lost grace. And now I’m going to be stuck with you two, wandering around these woods, for all eternity.”

            Dean thinks that he’s being a little bit dramatic.

            “ _Nobody_ knew anything?” Sam asks. He sounds skeptical.

            Though the brunt of Balthazar’s ire had been directed at Dean yesterday, and is indeed still directed at him if the way he had glanced very obviously at Dean when he’d said ‘you two’ was any indication, Balthazar hasn’t shown much patience with Sam either.

            Now, he turns to Sam and gives him a look that suggests he’s the stupidest human being ever to live. “Well,” he begins. “First off, most angels won’t even _talk_ to me, because I’ve thrown my lot in with Cas. _Secondly_ , I don’t know where you got the impression that angels Fall left and right, because they don’t. There have literally been _three_ angels in all of history to lose their grace like this, and you’ve met all of them: Lucifer, Anna, and now Cas.”

            Wow. Dean hadn’t realized the extent of their screwedness until this moment.

            Sam’s not letting it go, though, has that look on his face that Dean imagined he’d gotten in college when one of his professors had given him a lower grade than he’d expected, the look that says he _knows_ how smart he is, and can’t believe everyone else can’t see it too. “If it’s so rare, then how did Uriel know where to find Anna’s, and how to get it back?”

            “I don’t _know_ , idiot,” Balthazar snaps. “I _just_ told you that I’m not in with the higher powers. Uriel was.”

            “So basically, we’re up shit creek,” Dean summarizes. He hates this, hates how helpless he feels.

            “No, c’mon,” Sam says. “We’ll find it, we _have_ to.”

            “You should probably get used to the idea of Cas being human, yes,” Balthazar says, ignoring Sam entirely.

            And that reminds Dean. “So, Balthy,” he says, allowing his most predatory smirk to take over his face. “How’re you gonna feel when Cas is slumming it down here with me, all the time?” He still doesn’t want Cas to stay human, that hasn’t changed, but Balthazar is rubbing him the wrong fucking way, and he can’t resist anything that will upset him.

            The comment’s like a heat seeking fucking missile, and Dean can see the exact moment it hits. Balthazar’s face actually contorts in rage. “You have _no idea_ ,” he says, seething. “Of what, exactly, the _creature_ you have taken up with is. I have been with him since the beginning, every step of the way, and you will never understand him as well as I do.”

            Well. Dean wasn’t expecting Balthazar to be that direct, but he’s not complaining. “Maybe I don’t need to,” he says. “After the way you guys treated him, are _still_ treating him, he probably doesn’t even want to be around you.”

            Dean can tell that Balthazar wants to leave, wants to just pop out of this situation, but can’t, because Cas expects him to help.

            Dean’s grudgingly impressed by Balthazar’s loyalty.

            “That’s not my fault,” Balthazar says, his voice a little quieter. “I’ve been on his side the whole time.”

            “Ok,” Sam interrupts in a falsely cheerful voice. “Fun as this is, we actually do have work that we need to be doing. How about you guys _not_ antagonize each other until we’ve found Cas’s grace?” Although Sam had been all for torturing Balthazar yesterday, Dean knows he’s right, knows that the difficulties they’ve been having means they can’t waste time bickering.

            He doesn’t have to like it, though, and he makes sure that Sam is positioned in between he and Balthazar at all times as they begin their search anew.

            “Kanima,” Stiles gasps out as he all but falls through the door of the subway car.

            Derek, who’s alone because he had ordered his betas and Cas to be elsewhere so he could hear himself think, raises an eyebrow. “Gesundheit.”

            “Now is not the time for you to grow a sense of humor, Derek,” Stiles snaps. “The thing we’re up against, the thing that’s doing the killing: it’s called a Kanima.”

            Derek is impressed. “I’ve never even heard of that.”

            Stiles collapses into one of the subway car seats. He looks exhausted, which makes sense, because he’s probably been up researching for most of the night. Derek wants to tell him to go to sleep, preferably in Derek’s bed. “Neither have most people. It’s like, a footnote in the back of this thing. But get this: it’s a shape-shifter, South American in origin, lizard-like, which explains the creepy Bible quotes, has razor sharp claws, which explains the wounds, and it produces a paralyzing venom.”

            “Which explains why the mechanic didn’t move,” Derek finishes.

            “Exactly! There was some other stuff in there – I didn’t get all of it, Latin is hard – but at one point, it says that the Kanima seeks a…the closest word I could come up with is ‘friend,’ but that sounds wrong, and also not like a thing that a murderous monster would be after.”

            “So you think these aren’t just random killings, then,” Derek says.

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “When are they ever? But no, I don’t. This thing is looking for _something_ , and I’d bet that the killings have something to do with it.”

            Derek makes to nod, but then something that Stiles had said earlier finally registers. “Wait, you said this thing is a shape-shifter?”

            “Yeah?” Stiles asks. “Is that important?”

            “That _means_ that this thing is like us, like werewolves,” Derek explains. “It’s human most of the time, but occasionally shifts into its animal form.”

             Stiles heaves a put-upon sigh. “Wonderful. As if werewolves weren’t enough, now I have to deal with were _lizards_ , too.” He’s slouched a little in his seat as they speak, comfortable around Derek in a way that no one who knows him, what he is and what he’s done, should. Derek’s been distracted the entire conversation, more than he usually is around Stiles, because of the way Stiles just _fits_ so well here.

             Derek wonders what it would be like if he had an _actual_ home where Stiles could fit, instead of a temporary base filled with his regret and loneliness and fear.

             They’re silent for a few seconds, Derek lost in his thoughts and Stiles beginning to fidget and dart curious looks around the room. This is broken, however, when Stiles suddenly sits up, ramrod-straight, and blurts out. “Like _you_! Derek, that’s it!”

             Derek just stares at him. He finds it hard to follow Stiles’s mental gymnastics even when Stiles is voicing every thought aloud, and now that Stiles has skipped that middle section, straight from point a to point z, he’s completely lost.

             Stiles is undeterred. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” he mutters. “Derek, what if the Kanima wasn’t just like you because it’s a shape-shifter? What if it was _turned_ the same way as you, too?”

             Derek suddenly concurs with Stiles. He can’t believe he didn’t see it before, either. “Jackson,” he says, his mind racing. “What if the bite _did_ take, just not in the way I was expecting?”

             “Not _just_ Jackson,” Stiles says, and when Derek looks up at him sharply, he looks almost afraid. “There’s someone else who it could be.”

             “Lydia,” Derek says.

             Stiles slouches down in his seat again, bringing one hand up to scrub over his tired eyes. “ _Fuck_ , this situation just got a million times more complicated.”

             Derek agrees, but seeing Stiles in this state is getting painful, and his mouth moves before he can stop himself, before he can remind himself that he’s not supposed to give so much away. “Stiles. You should go to sleep.”

             Stiles snorts. “You want me to _sleep_ at a time like this? I’ve just found out that either the girl I’ve spent most of my life pining after or the guy she’s still in love with is probably a scaly, murderous beast. You’ll have to forgive me if sleep isn’t my first priority.”

             Derek ignores the comment about Lydia Martin, because it makes him want to break something. “If you’re tired, you’re a liability, not an asset,” he points out.

            “Yes, thank you, Captain Sensitivity,” Stiles says. “Just ignore my emotional crisis to remind me of how I drag everyone down with my unfortunate humanness.”

             Derek squeezes his eyes shut. Why does he want this irritating little high schooler, again?

            (Because he just translated a bestiary in Latin to help Derek. Because of how fiercely loyal he is. Because he challenges Derek, makes him feel things more deeply than he has since a fire destroyed everything he loved. Because of the way he looks when he’s engrossed in something, pink lips wrapped around a pen cap and long fingers beating a tattoo on the table.)

              “That’s not what I said,” Derek grits out. “You just…look tired.”

              When Derek looks up, Stiles is full-on gaping at him. “What?” Derek asks, unable to see what’s so shocking about his last words.

             “Do I detect a hint of _caring_ , Derek?” Stiles says, placing one hand over his heart and widening his eyes dramatically. “Do I sense that you may actually be _concerned about my well-being_?”

            Stiles is joking, hamming it up for attention, Derek can tell. Still, Derek doesn’t like the idea that Stiles might think, even for a minute, that Derek doesn’t care about him. He doesn’t know how to put that into words, though, how to say anything without upsetting the precarious balance of their relationship, without letting Stiles know _exactly_ how Derek feels about him. So instead, he just says “Stiles,” completely deadpan.

            Stiles hops up off the seat, perhaps just a little slower than he ordinarily might. “I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he says. “I know you have a _reputation_ to uphold.” He gives an exaggerated wink, and then he’s gone, out the door.

           “Be here first thing tomorrow morning!” Derek yells at his retreating back.

            When he’s heard the Jeep’s clunky old engine roar into life and then take Stiles away, Derek finally lets himself slump into a seat.

            He’s fucked.

            And if he just so happens to be sitting in the seat where Stiles had been just moments before, well, he’s not admitting to anything. 

            After a second day of fruitless searching, after he and Sam have shared a dejected dinner and Sam is conked out in the motel room bed, Dean does something stupid.

            Dean knows he’s impulsive, knows that it’s often his fatal flaw, but the impulsivity has worked for him just often enough that he keeps doing it, keeps doing these stupid fucking things when he’s backed into a corner.

            The thing is, Dean has good instincts. Yeah, he may be a little overprotective at times, and it’s possible that some of the stupid things he’s done in the past may have had something to do with this overprotectiveness, but he knows what it sounds like when someone he cares about is in trouble.

            Just from the short phone conversations with Cas on the phone the day before, Dean had picked up that something was wrong. A few little pauses, hesitations, that wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone else, had raised Dean’s hackles, caused that sixth sense to start niggling in the back of his mind.

            He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t even know if it’s real danger or just mental anguish, but he needs to get to Cas.

            In order to do that, he needs to find Cas’s grace, and neither himself, Sam, nor Balthazar are of any help.

            If he’s gonna do this, he needs to pull out the big guns.

            He surveys the materials he’s got spread out in front of him: the seven candles, within the chalk drawing on the pavement, their flames flickering in the gentle breeze, the wooden bowl filled with its mixture of celery seeds, echinacea, parsley, wormwood and belladonna, the full matchbox laid out next to the sigil.

            Dean takes a deep breath, then brings a small knife up to make a nick in the palm of his hand. He spares a moment to wonder why, exactly, he is so often required to give up his own blood, before he allows a few drops to spill on the bowl of herbs. Striking a match, he recites the incantation under his breath, and then drops the match into the bowl, causing it to release a small bang, much louder and more dramatic than it would have been were it not for the magical properties of the herbs.

            “You could have just called, sweetheart,” a dry voice says from behind him, and Dean is getting really sick of dealing with supernatural creatures with British accents. “Crowley,” he acknowledges, resisting the urge to bury a knife into Crowley just on principle.

            “Winchester,” Crowley says back. “I assume this isn’t a social call?”

            Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response. “I take it you’ve already heard about Cas?”

            Crowley steps closer. Dean _could_ have drawn hidden devil’s traps around, _could_ have led Crowley straight into a trap. Probably should have, if he’s being honest, but he knows Crowley, knows how intelligent and manipulative he is, and he knows that he’ll have the best chance of getting Crowley to do what he wants if he lays all his cards on the table.

            “I’ve heard,” Crowley says, a smirk playing over his face. “It was only a matter of time before your pet angel got himself into trouble.”

            Dean actually has to grind his teeth together so he doesn’t retort. “Listen, we think that Cas’s grace landed somewhere in a forest a few miles from here,” he says. “But aside from that, we don’t have any idea how to find it.”

            “Are you actually _admitting_ that you don’t know something?” Crowley sounds delighted.  
            “Look, are you going to help us or not?” Dean asks, cutting to the chase. Dealing with Crowley always gives him a headache, and for a millisecond, he’s grateful that he’s had to spend the last few days with Balthazar.

            He has to physically shake his head to get rid of that thought, that’s how wrong it is.

            Crowley gives him a weird look, but still manages to come off as calm and superior when he says “What’s in it for me?”

            “Dude, I am _not_ giving you my soul again,” Dean says. He tries his best to sound tough and disaffected, but he feels a jolt of real fear in his belly. He means it; he’s not going back to hell for anything.

            He thinks Cas would understand.

            “Like I want _that_ ,” Crowley scoffs. “Old news, darling.”

            “Then what _do_ you want?” Dean asks. “Besides for me _not_ to sic a whole load of angry angels on you?” It’s a bluff, of course it is, but Dean takes a moment to imagine the effects of introducing Crowley and Balthazar. It would involve a lot of British snark, that’s for sure.

            Although, Dean’s not entirely certain that they wouldn’t unite with each other in their hatred of him, so maybe that’s not such a good idea.

            Crowley doesn’t look cowed by the threat, exactly, but he does look thoughtful, which Dean has long since learned is a sign that he’s open for negotiating. “While I don’t believe for one second that you could actually do that – just because _one_ angel follows you around like a little lost puppy doesn’t mean the rest will – maybe you _do_ have something you can do for me.”

            Dean just makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture, because he’s sure that if he speaks, he’ll insult Crowley, and the situation is too precarious for that right now.

            “I want immunity,” Crowley says, giving Dean that intense look that all supernatural creatures seem to have perfected.

            “Sounds kinky,” Dean comments, unable to resist.

            Crowley ignores him, which is probably better for everyone involved. “I mean that I want you not to set Castiel on me as soon as he becomes mayor of heaven,” he clarifies. “Just let me do my own little thing, torture a little, send my demons out to do my bidding, the usual. No soul pacts, no trickery. Just a promise, from one man to another.”

            “Might work if you were actually a man.” Dean’s not stupid enough to take Crowley’s word for anything. “No ritual at all. Just tell me how to do it, and I’ll promise not to go after you.”

            “I’ve seen how you two honor promises in the past,” Crowley says coolly. “Forgive me for not falling all over myself to accept your deal.” He pauses for a moment. “Speaking of, does Sam know you’re doing this?”

            Dean fights his flush down, determined not to give Crowley the satisfaction of seeing him react. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says. “Can’t see how it’s relevant to our deal.”

            Crowley studies him for a moment, before relenting with a sigh. “Alright,” he says. “Since I don’t actually want Raphael’s army to win this war, I guess your promise will have to do for now. Besides, I miss the little angel – he entertains me.”

            Dean bites back a sarcastic response. He’s so close – any little misstep, any remark that Crowley takes offense to, can completely undo his work.

            Crowley waves one hand, the motion complex, yet with a studied air of weariness, and a small slip of paper appears in Dean’s hand. Dean garbs onto it and holds it fast, bringing it up to squint at the words written in small, spidery script in the half-light of the moon. It’s not a language he recognizes, similar to Latin but not quite, and he looks up at Crowley to question it.

            Before he can, though, Crowley butts in. “You go approximately 642 paces due west from that one tree with the great knobby things on it. Mind you, these are _normal_ person paces, not giant paces, so have that poncey angel do it. It’ll be an oak, kind of crowded in like it grew up in the middle of a lot of other trees, which it did. Stand next to it, and recite what’s on that paper three times – careful with the pronunciation – and hold out a vial or something, and the grace will extract itself from the tree.”

            Dean’s head is spinning with the information, trying to remember each little detail. A thousand questions are fighting in his brain, but the one that comes to the forefront is “Why should I trust you?”

            When he looks up, Crowley’s gone, disappeared like he’d never been there at all, and Dean can hear Crowley’s mocking voice in his head, _you can’t_ , as clearly as if Crowley had spoken out loud.

            Dean sighs and turns back in the direction of the motel, stuffing the precious scrap of paper into his jacket pocket.

            He needs to figure out what he’s going to tell Sam and Balthazar.

            Derek had wanted to be stealthy about this, wanted to find out who the kanima is without alerting anyone that they were onto it.

            Unfortunately, his opinion had been unceremoniously struck down, and Derek finds himself standing in a patch of woods not too far from the remains of his family house.

            Stiles had flat-out refused to meet at the subway car again (“Lydia will _not_ agree to sit in that grody-ass train, Derek,”) and Derek had flat-out refused to meet anywhere in public (“What if the Kanima _shifts_? We can’t risk that in a public place,”) so they had come to a tentative compromise.

            As Derek stands there, his pack, Scott, Allison, Stiles, Jackson, and Cas spread out around him, he feels a creeping sense of unease.

            There’d been another attack the night before, a man choked to death in front of his home and his pregnant wife murdered in her hospital bed just after giving birth to the premature baby as a result of the shock she had suffered. Both attacks bore the hallmarks of the Kanima, and the public of Beacon Hills was starting to take notice, starting to panic at the fact that, for the second time in as many months, the town apparently had a serial killer on its hands.

            The one spark of hope that Derek has had come, like many of his positive feelings since the night Scott was bitten, as a result of Stiles. Despite Derek’s express orders, he had apparently not fallen asleep, but instead gone over the victims’ profiles with his equally exhausted father until they had come up with a connection: all the victims, except for Mr. Lahey, attended Beacon Hills high school at the same time. After a little more digging, Stiles claimed, they had refined even that theory, realizing that each of the victims had been on a swim team coached by none other than Mr. Lahey.

            So now, they had connections between the victims, as well as a list of who the Kanima might go after next.

            If this meeting goes well, if they are actually able to find out who the Kanima is, they might be able to prevent any more deaths, might actually be able to stop this.

            As they stand there, waiting for Lydia Martin, who is a good ten minutes late (as if Derek needed another reason to dislike her). Derek can hear Cas shifting uncomfortably behind him. He doesn’t like the fact that they are going against Sam and Dean’s direct orders by allowing Cas out of the protective wards, but Cas can make decisions for himself, and it’s not Derek’s place to order him to stay somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

            Besides, in the few short days since Cas arrived, Derek has been noticing how much he dislikes being cooped up. It’s understandable – Cas had mentioned flying, sounding nostalgic, and Derek can’t even imagine being restricted to a tiny space after having that kind of freedom for so long.

            Derek’s musings on Cas are interrupted by the crackling sound of someone coming through the underbrush. It’s unbearably loud to Derek’s ears, and the other werewolves all perk up their ears, though the noise is not close enough for the humans to hear.

            A few minutes later, Lydia Martin comes out from behind a tree. She looks a mixture of bored and disgusted with the situation she’s found herself in, and she’s dressed in a manner that’s entirely unsuited for wandering around in the forest: a scrap of fabric that barely counts as a skirt, and sky-high heels that would make most people trip and fall on the uneven forest ground.

            Lydia doesn’t seem to be having any trouble walking, though, and she comes to stand in front of everyone, one hand on her hip, surveying the gathering of people she’s faced with.

            “This better be good,” she says airily. “I have a date in a few hours.”

            Derek doesn’t miss the way Lydia shoots a look at Jackson, nor does he miss Jackson’s scent change, though Jackson doesn’t outwardly react to the dig. Derek’s more surprised at the fact that Stiles doesn’t seem to react at all, but then, Derek supposes he must be used to Lydia dating other people.

            Derek knows that he would likely alienate Lydia if he took charge of this meeting, so he nods to Stiles, who takes a few steps forward and says “This’ll only take a few minutes, Lydia. I know that some weird things have been happening to you lately, and I’m sorry to tell you that we, -” he indicates everyone around him with a sweeping arm motion. “- know more about it then we’ve let on.”

            It’s not only Derek that can tell that these words intrigue Lydia. He doesn’t expect the anger, though, doesn’t expect Lydia’s eyes to narrow and for her to take a threatening step towards Stiles.

            Allison’s the one with the bow and arrow, the one that is related to the woman who destroyed Derek’s entire life, but he’s more afraid of Lydia Martin after this little display of anger than he has ever been of Allison.

            “You mean to tell me,” Lydia begins, her voice falsely sweet. “That you _know_ why I was _savagely attacked_ at a school dance and then spent three days wandering naked around the woods?”

            “Not exactly?” Stiles hedges. He’s taken a few giant steps back, and Derek is relieved to see that he’s not the only one afraid of this girl.

            With each passing second, Derek’s more and more convinced that Lydia is the Kanima.

            “Spill, Stilinski,” Lydia snarls.

            Stiles gulps, but motions for Scott to come and stand beside him. “Well, there’s no real way to ease you into this, so I’m just gonna come out and say it: werewolves are real.”

            “Really? That’s what you’re going with?” Lydia crosses her arms across her chest and raises an eyebrow, but she seems unsure.

            From his spot next to Stiles, Scott changes. Derek can only see his back, but he knows what’s happening, is intimately familiar with it. He knows that Scott’s canines are lengthening, hair is growing down his face, his fingernails are lengthening into claws, and his eyes are flashing gold.

            Lydia gasps, her eyes widening, and in that instant Derek is no longer afraid of her. She looks just like what she is: a scared little girl, grown up too fast.

            Scott shifts back. “Lydia, it’s fine. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says earnestly.

            “Who was it that attacked me, then?” Lydia asks shakily. “Was it one of you?”

            Now’s the time for Derek to step into the conversation. “It was my uncle, the same person who turned Scott. But don’t worry, he can’t hurt you anymore. He’s dead.”

            Lydia seems to relax a little, gaining back some of her superior attitude. “So why did you call me here, then?” she asks. “I find it hard to believe that you just wanted to let me in on your secret out of the goodness of your hearts.”

            Derek’s got to hand it to her. She’s a smart girl. “You’ll have heard about the killings,” Derek says. “That wasn’t any of us, either. In fact, it was a completely different creature. It’s called a Kanima, and we’re trying to find it so that no one else gets hurt.”

            “Ok,” Lydia says. “But what does that have to do with me?”

            “You have to understand,” Derek says, trying for some uncharacteristic tact. “When someone is bitten by a werewolf, like you were, one of two things happens: either the person dies, or they become a werewolf themselves.”

            “And neither of those things happened to me, so you think that I somehow became this Kanima monster,” Lydia says. “I think I’d _know_ if I was killing people, Derek Hale. I can tell you that it wasn’t me.”

            “The thing is, whoever’s the Kanima may not even know they’re doing it,” Derek says. “And you’re not the only person we’ve called here tonight for this reason.”

            They hadn’t told Jackson why they were gathering, just that it was ‘pack business’, and it’s entirely worth it to see the wheels in Jackson’s head turning as he realizes what’s going on. “Me!?” he says incredulously. “Trust me, you’ve got the wrong person. I know exactly what I’ve been doing at night.”

            Derek ignores the faux-casual way Lydia turns to Jackson and asks “You were bitten too?” because Jackson sounds way too sure that he knows what he’s been up to.

            Stiles beats him to the punch. “What do you mean, you know exactly what you’re doing at night?” he asks, suspicious. Derek knows that Stiles doesn’t like Jackson – hell, _everyone_ knows that Stiles doesn’t like Jackson – but he trusts Stiles not to be suspicious without good reason. Derek’s own instincts are thrumming beneath his skin, and he awaits Jackson’s answer with baited breath.

            Jackson rolls his eyes. “Look, weird things have been happening to me since you gave me the bite – and I don’t mean like werewolf-weird things, I mean like weird-weird things – so last full moon, I decided to record myself at night, to see if anything happened. I borrowed that Daehler geek’s cameras, and watched the whole thing, but the only weird thing that happened was that someone looped the footage. Daehler was probably pissed that I broke his camera, so he decided to mess with me.”

            Derek resists the urge to hit Jackson for his stupidity. He doesn’t know who this ‘Daehler’ is, but he knows that this whole situation is extremely fishy.

            “The Kanima seeks a master!” Stiles exclaims (he hadn’t been too pleased to learn that his translation of the bestiary was essentially worthless, as Cas spoke every language known to man and was therefore able to read the bestiary with no problems, even the parts that Stiles couldn’t get). “What if you _did_ do something that night, and Matt looped the footage so you wouldn’t find out? What if he’s the one controlling you?”

            “What do you mean, _controlling_ him?” Lydia demands.

            Stiles turns to her, clearly on one of his tangents. “The Kanima has this master, see, and the Kanima has to do the master’s bidding. So, if Jackson is the Kanima, and he did kill those people, he didn’t do it because he _chose_ to, he did it because the master told him to.”

            “We need to get ahold of that video,” Derek decides.

            “I gave it to Danny,” Jackson says. He looks a little pale, and Derek can’t blame him – he knows how hard it is to be accused of murder, even if you’re innocent. “He’s good with all that computer stuff, he said he could get the lost footage back.”

            Derek remembers Danny, though he kind of wishes he didn’t. “Alright,” he decides. “Jackson, you go find Danny, see if he’s made any progress. Erica, Isaac, Boyd – you go find this Matt person. Keep an eye on him, but _don’t_ let him know you’re there. Scott, Stiles, Allison- keep an eye on Lydia.”

            “Why do they have to keep an eye on _me_?” Lydia complains, but she’s sat down on a fallen tree trunk and doesn’t look like she’s about to go anywhere.

            “Because I haven’t completely ruled you out as a suspect,” Derek snaps. “As for me, I’m keeping an eye on Jackson. Cas -” he turns around, only to find that Cas is no longer behind him. “-Is obviously going to do whatever he wants.” Damn Cas and his silent way of moving.

            “Who was that guy, anyway?” Lydia asks. “The hot one.” She smirks at Jackson again.

            “He used to be an angel,” Stiles says, then adds “It’s a long story,” at Lydia’s skeptical look.

            Much as Derek’s instincts are telling him to stay with Stiles, he knows that Jackson is the priority right now. Besides, though Derek may not trust Scott when it comes to himself or his pack, he does trust Scott to do whatever’s possible to protect his best friend. If Lydia’s the Kanima and threatens them, Derek is sure Scott will get Stiles to safety, maybe even at the cost of his own life. Besides, Allison brought her bow.

            As Derek lopes off behind Jackson, who’s muttering under his breath about how _unfair_ his life is, he tries to tamp down the satisfaction he’s getting out of their progress.

            After all, they’re not in the clear quite yet.

            “So I may have called Crowley last night,” are Dean’s first words to Sam the next morning.

            Sam, who had just woken up and was therefore still in that sleepy state where he was just sort of blinking at everything, suddenly snaps completely awake. “You did _what_?” he yelps.

            “Relax, I didn’t make a deal with him or anything, Dean says, aiming for reassuring.

            From the look on Sam’s face, he’s missed his mark. “Oh, ok,” he snipes. “So you didn’t make a deal with a demon for the _second_ time, everything’s alright then.”

            Dean, from where he’s sitting on the bed pulling on his boots, chooses to ignore that. “He told me where to find the grace, and gave me some sort of ritual to draw it out. Ritual’s not in any language I recognize, though.” He hands the small slip of paper over to Sam, who frowns.

            “It looks sort of like Latin,” Sam says, his righteous indignation calmed by the prospect of peering at dead languages.  “But no incarnation of Latin that _I’ve_ ever seen.”

            Dean nods. He’d been afraid that Sam would say that. “I’ll call Cas, then,” he says. “He’ll be able to make heads or tails of it, tell us if it’s a hoax and how to pronounce it.”

            “…Or we could just wait for Balthazar?” Sam suggests.

            “I’d rather not,” Dean grumbles, but he sees the logic there. He’d honestly forgotten that Balthazar was on their side, given all the barely veiled animosity they’d shown towards each other over the last few days.

            Sam rolls his eyes. “You just want to talk to Cas.”

            Dean is saved from defending himself from this (true) accusation when Balthazar pops into the room, looking pissed. “Have you two _forgotten_ that we have work to do?” he snaps.

            “We have a lot less work than you think, douchebag,” Dean says smugly. “ _I’ve_ figured out a way to find Cas’s grace.”

            Balthazar eyes him, skeptical. “Really. And what might that be?”

            Dean holds out his hand to Sam, who sighs and hands over the slip of paper, muttering something about ‘alpha-male posturing’. Dean ignores him and hands the slip over to Balthazar.

            Balthazar takes it with a snort, but after he’s read over the first few lines, his eyebrows begin to draw together in confusion. When he’s finished reading, he looks back up. “Where the _hell_ did you get this?” he asks, and Dean can tell from the note of grudging pride in his voice that it’s legit.

            “None of your business,” Dean says smugly. “So it’ll work, then?”

            “I think so,” Balthazar admits. “I’ve never seen this particular incantation before, but judging from what I _do_ know…”

            Sam walks around to peer at the paper over Balthazar’s shoulder. “What language is that, anyway?” he asks.

            Balthazar slips away with a scowl. “Rude. It’s archaic Latin. Old stuff. Powerful.”

            “I’ve never even heard of archaic Latin,” Sam says.

            “You wouldn’t.” Before Dean can put up his token protest, Balthazar is pressing his fingers to both he and Sam’s foreheads, and, a whole lotta nausea later, they’re standing at the edge of the woods.

            Dean is so disoriented from the angel flight that he stumbles and actually falls on his ass. He hadn’t thought anything could be worse than Cas flying him places, but either Cas has been going easy on them, or Balthazar purposely made it difficult.

            Both scenarios are equally possible, really.

            Dean regains his footing, still feeling like he’s gonna blow chunks. “If you ever do that again,” he says, pointing a slightly shaking finger at Balthazar, “I won’t need an angel blade to kill your ass, you got that?”

            Balthazar doesn’t seem particularly threatened, and, to the soundtrack of Sam’s pained moans where his large body is still stretched out across the forest floor, he says “So did you find out _where_ we have to use this, then?”

            Dean pulls Sam to his feet and claps a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Walk it off, Sammy.” Turning back to Balthazar, he frowns to himself, trying to remember Crowley’s words. “My, uh, _contact_ said that we have to start at ‘that one tree with the great knobby things on it’.” He vaguely remembers seeing a tree that could fit the description, but all the trees started to look alike by the second hour he spent in this damn forest, let alone the second day.

            “I think that’s this way,” Sam says, still pale, and the three of them set off in the direction he’s pointing.

            Perhaps predictably, everything comes to a head as soon as they figure out what’s actually going on. Stiles wakes up after a long night of waiting for Lydia to lizard out and kill someone (she hadn’t, though her increasing anger throughout the night as Scott, Stiles, and Allison refused to let her out of their sight was almost as scary) to his phone ringing.

            It’s his dad, and he opens it up in confusion, because, for once, he hadn’t actually lied to his dad about where he’d ended up, though he supposes that if someone saw Allison and Lydia sneak into Scott’s house after his mom was asleep, they might have called his dad.

            Any confusion is cleared up, though, as soon as Stiles’s dad says his name, in that sharp, businesslike tone that he only uses when he’s talking about work. “Stiles, are you alright?” he asks.

            Stiles is instantly on alert. “Yeah, dad, I’m still at Scott’s. What’s up?”

            He and Scott, being the gentlemen that they are, had taken the floor when they’d finally concluded that Lydia wasn’t going to do anything at about five in the morning, leaving the girls to pile up in Scott’s bed. Scott’s floor isn’t exactly the most comfortable thing in the world, but Stiles’s mind is entirely on the phone call as he absently stretches out the kinks in his limbs.

            Stiles’s dad gives a long, staticky sigh of relief. “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, son, but one of your classmates passed away last night,” he says carefully. “A drowning. It looks to be accidental so far, but given the events of the past few weeks, we aren’t certain.”

            The Sheriff’s voice fades into the background as Stiles’s troubled mind kicks into overdrive. He sits straight up, disturbing one of Scott’s arms, which Scott had thrown over Stiles in his sleep. Scott stirs, a much lighter sleeper since the bite, but all Stiles can think about is Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, and which one of them he’ll have to mourn.

            He’s ashamed of the little voice in the back of his mind that expresses relief that Derek’s alright. Next to him, Scott sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and asks “Stiles? What’s going on?” in a raspy whisper.

            Stiles shushes him with a flailing hand movement, and tunes back into the phone conversation.

            “I know this is probably hard for you, Stiles, and I’m sorry to have to tell you over the phone, but I’ll probably be working this all day, and -”

            “Who is it?” Stiles interrupts, his voice far too loud. Someone from the bed (probably Lydia) throws a pillow at him.

            “Matt Daehler. He was on the lacrosse team, right?” the Sheriff asks.

            Pure relief runs through Stiles. “Yeah. Yeah, he was,” Stiles manages. “Listen, dad, I know you have to get back to work. Thanks for calling to tell me.”

            “I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else,” the Sheriff says. “Have a good day, alright? I’ll see you when I get home.”

            Stiles ends the call, and Scott immediately turns to him with wide eyes. “What happened to Matt?” he asks.

            Allison and Lydia both perk up at this. “Matt?” Allison asks, looking very intense for someone still sleep-ruffled.

            “He’s dead,” Stiles said shortly.

            “That’s good, isn’t it?” Lydia asks. “It means this is over, right?”

            Stiles hates to wipe the hopeful look off of Lydia’s face, but he’s gotta be realistic, here. “I doubt it,” he says. “Even if Matt’s dead, the Kanima’s still on the loose.” As if on cue, Stiles’s phone rings once again.

            “You’re popular this morning,” Allison comments, her joke falling a little flat.

            Stiles glances at the name and then picks up. “Derek? What’s up? What happened?”

            Derek’s breathing heavily across the line, and if Stiles weren’t so used to Derek’s frequent creepiness, he’d be really afraid. “Stiles.” Derek grits out. “This is bad. Really bad.”

            Stiles stands up and starts to pace, the words making him nervous and jittery. He can hear Scott relaying Derek’s words to the girls, and is grateful he doesn’t have to. “What’s bad?” he asks urgently. “You have to talk, man, I can’t read your mind.”

            “Jackson’s the Kanima,” Derek says. “Gerard Argent killed Matt, and now he’s Jackson’s master. Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and I are all alive, but Jackson paralyzed us, and Gerard took Cas. Good enough for you?”

            There are so many things that Stiles wants to address, but what comes out of his mouth is “Cas? What does Gerard want with Cas?”

            “Jackson could sense something…different about him,” Derek says. “Refused to go near him. Gerard was ‘interested’.”

            Stiles sits down again, heavily. “Fuck, Dean’s gonna kill us,” he moans.

            “That’s all you can say right now? Really?”

            “I’m _compartmentalizing_ , asshole,” Stiles snaps back. “Listen, where are you guys?

            “The house,” Derek says.

            “Ok, I’ll bring everyone else, and we’ll come up with a plan. After all, we outnumber him, right?”

            “Yeah, Gerard just has a murderous lizard and God knows how many hunters at his command,” Derek deadpans. “Should be easy.”

            “You’re not helping,” Stiles informs him, and then he hangs up. Scott’s finished telling Allison and Lydia about the conversation, and all three of them are getting ready. The girls, who hadn’t bothered to stop by their own houses before coming to Scott’s, are already fully clothed, somehow still looking beautiful despite the fact that they just woke up.

            As Scott heads to his bathroom to change, Allison picks up her bow, which, Stiles notices, had been dangerously close to his head all night, and says “Don’t worry, Stiles. We’ve got this.”

            Stiles is not reassured.

            “640, 641, and…642,” Balthazar calls out, coming to an abrupt stop. He’s been counting obnoxiously since they first found the correct marker, and Dean’s even closer to strangling him than usual. As he looks up, though, a bit of his annoyance dissipates, because this looks right.

            The tree is _massive_ , bigger than any oak Dean’s seen, and there’s something about it that just feels peaceful. Additionally, it’s right up on some other trees, exactly as Crowley had described.

            “I think this is it,” he calls, staring up at it.

            “Really?” Sam quips, coming to stand beside Dean.

            “Can we just skip the part where we all bicker with each other?” Balthazar asks, weary. “I’d like to leave your company as soon as possible.”

            Dean makes a rather childish face at him, but he can’t help but agree. He and Sam come up to stand next to Balthazar, forming a small circle in front of the tree. From the pocket of his jacket, Dean produces a small vial, holding it up in the direction of the tree.

            Balthazar clears his throat and begins to read the ritual from the scrap of paper. His voice seems different, somehow, from his everyday annoying drawl, like the power of the words is seeping into it.

            Dean can feel the power as well, as Balthazar gains confidence and speeds up, beginning the second recitation of the ritual. The leaves on the tree begin to rustle, despite the fact that there is no wind.

            As Balthazar begins the third recitation, Dean feels this inexorable connection to the power that’s flowing through the air and pulsing from the tree, as though he knows it.

            He supposes he does, has known it since the day, all those years ago, when that same power caused windows to shatter around him and electronics to flicker on and off, unable to stand the true power of Cas’s voice.

            Balthazar finishes the third recitation, and, for a fraction of a second, nothing happens. A mixed sense of worry and disgust fills Dean, mostly at himself for falling for Crowley’s tricks, for allowing his hope to get the better of him, and for, once again, diving headfirst into a shitty plan.

            And then, he feels rather than sees a surge of power, and he knows instantly that the ritual has worked. “Close your eyes, Sammy,” he yells, taking his own advice and screwing his eyes shut before they burn out of his sockets.

            Within a few seconds, it’s over, the humming power in the air cut off as though someone has pressed the off button. Dean cautiously opens one eye and peers at the vial he’s still holding, which is now filled with the brightest white light he’s ever seen.

            He wonders, as he puts the stopper in the top of the vial to stop Cas’s essence from escaping, why it doesn’t burn his eyes out when it’s trapped like this. The grace pulses gently inside the bottle, like it’s greeting him, and Dean thinks he knows the answer.

            Oh so carefully, he slips the vial back into his pocket. Only then does he look up, sees Balthazar and Sam staring at him strangely.

            “What?” he asks.

            “The grace seems…very attached to you,” Balthazar admits grudgingly. “I’ve never seen that sort of thing happen before.”

            Dean resists the urge to crow in victory. Now that they’ve finally achieved their goal, he’s feeling slightly more charitable towards Balthazar, and the world in general.

            “We should get going,” Sam says, ever the voice of reason. “I’m sure Cas will want his grace back as soon as possible.”

            Dean knows what’s coming, and he turns to point an accusatory finger towards Balthazar. “You are _not_ zapping us there. Not after the little stunt you pulled earlier.”

            “Little stunt? Me?” Balthazar presses an open hand to his chest, the look on his face falsely innocent. Dean now has an answer to his question of whether Balthazar had purposely made their earlier journey more difficult than it needed to be, and every relief-based fuzzy feelings he’d had towards Balthazar disappear in an instant.

            “Fuck you,” Dean growls. “ _We’re_ taking the car, and the grace. For all I care, _you_ can go to hell.”

            Balthazar doesn’t look too wounded. “Just tell me where he is, yeah?”

            Sam intervenes before Dean vs. Balthazar, round a million, can start. “Beacon Hills, California. Look for Derek Hale. He’s a werewolf, but he’s helping us, so don’t kill him, alright?”

            Sam has barely finished the sentence before Balthazar’s gone.

            “Good fucking riddance,” Dean says. He’s already planning to complain to Cas, at length, about his taste in friends, and recommend that he and Balthazar never, ever meet again.

            “Think we should call Cas and tell him the good news?” Sam asks as they begin the trek back to their motel.

            “No need,” Dean says. “Dickhead over there must have spilled everything by now. Probably made it seem like _he_ was the one to save the day, too.”

            Sam opens his mouth, probably to point out that Balthazar had, in fact, saved the day by actually being able to read the ritual, but, seeing the look on Dean’s face, he wisely shuts it again.

            Dean runs his finger over the vial of grace in his pocket, marveling at how unnaturally warm it is. He knows that Cas is probably gonna have to go and resume the fight in heaven as soon as he gets his grace back, won’t be able to stick around for long, but he’s comforted by the knowledge that Cas will be an angel again, strong and badass and able to defend himself.

            It’s enough, for now.

            When Stiles, Allison, Lydia, and Scott get to the Hale house, they find Derek and his puppies sitting in the middle of the burnt-out living room.

            Isaac and Erica are arguing about…something, while Derek and Boyd sit silently, but they all abandon what they had been doing when they register the new arrivals.

            “So what’s the plan?” is Stiles’s opening line.

            “Aren’t plans usually _your_ job?” Erica asks. She has a point.

            “The _plan_ ,” Derek stresses. “Is to get Cas back. At any cost.”

            He looks positively awful – smears of dirt on his face, clothing ripped, tense worry written all over his face. He also looks strangely hot, but Stiles has long since accepted that Derek pretty much looks hot no matter what. “A-plus job on the plan there, Cujo,” Stiles says. “That sounds like a _fantastic_ way to get us all killed.”

            “What do you suggest then, Stiles?” Derek asks, clearly exasperated.

            “Pretty much anything other than that?” Stiles replies. “I mean, I know how important it is to get Cas back, but we can’t do that if we’re all dead, dude. I think we need to be a little sneaky, here.”

            “We’re not going to hurt Jackson, are we?” Lydia asks. She’s trying to look like she doesn’t really care either way, but the slight quiver in her voice gives her away.

            “We _can’t_ hurt Jackson,” Erica says. “Trust me, we’ve tried. He’s basically indestructible.”

            Lydia looks relieved, but she’s the only one. Stiles doesn’t like to admit it, but the petty part of him is sort of wishing that they could just find a way to kill Jackson and be done with it. After all, he’s killed four people at this point, doesn’t he deserve it?

            Even as he thinks it, Stiles knows he’s being unreasonable, because Jackson had no clue what he was doing, wasn’t in control of it. He’s saved from a further contemplation of what an awful person he is, though, by someone popping into the room without notice, much like Dean, Sam, and Cas had the morning Stiles had met them.

            The person – angel – is sandy haired and smirky, and he opens his mouth to begin speaking as soon as everyone’s noticed he’s there. Stiles doesn’t pay attention, though, because his instincts are telling him to _make him leave_ , _now_.

            Allison, being the good little badass hunter that she is, had raised her bow and pointed it directly at the angel’s back as soon as he’d appeared. Stiles sees his chance and closes his hand around the tip of the deadly sharp arrow that’s protruding from it, letting it bite into his palm until it draws blood. Allison gasps and jerks away, but Stiles has just heard the angel ask “Where the hell is Castiel?”, and so he ignores her, motoring over to one of the dilapidated living room walls.

            When he gets there, he begins to draw on the wall with his own blood, the other symbol Dean and Sam had taught him during one of their Skype calls. A circle with an elongated number five inside, some various squiggles around the outside, topped off with a little triangle, like the roof on a child’s drawing of a house. It’s pretty crude, the circle not connecting all the way and other little gaps in the lines, because Stiles only has so much blood to give, but it’ll do.

            It has to.

            Stiles presses his bloodied hand into the center of the circle, and the room is suddenly filled with a white light. There’s a rushing sound in the air, and a pressure against Stiles’s front, then it disappears, all at once.

            Stiles’s eyes had closed automatically at the light, and he opens them now to see that the angel is gone, but everyone else is staring at him with a combination of shock and awe. He gives them a weak smile.

            “What the _hell_ was that?” Scott cries, putting words to the look on everyone’s face.

            “Angel banishing sigil,” Stiles says. He’s trying for casual, but he’s sure he misses by a mile, because the adrenaline is still rushing through his system, making him feel lightheaded and shaky.

            “Of course it is,” Derek mutters. “Was the blood really necessary?”

            “You really think I would’ve cut myself up if it wasn’t?” Stiles counters. It’s true. The wound’s starting to actually hurt, the skin of his palm all torn up, the remaining blood dripping off of Stiles’s hand and onto the floor. Stiles would feel bad about that, but the house is already creepy as hell. What’s a little blood?

            “Couldn’t we have just _talked_ to the angel?” Lydia asks. “He probably could’ve helped us save Cas.” She sounds remarkably calm given that she’s just seen an angel for the first time. Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and Allison aren’t as lucky – they’re all still looking at the place the angel had been with a mix of fascination and horror.

            “No,” Derek says.

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “The reason that Cas is here, and human, in the first place is because of the other angels,” he explains, turning to Lydia. “They’re after him for some reason, trying to kill him.”

            “So that’s a no,” Lydia mumbles, just as it hits Stiles how absolutely _fucked_ they are. Gerard’s got Cas and control of Jackson, and now the angels have found them out. “We need to call Dean and Sam,” he says.

            “We _can’t_ ,” Derek argues. “They’ll -”

            “I _know_ , dude, believe me,” Stiles interrupts. “But we’re in really deep shit right now. This isn’t just about us anymore: we’re in the middle of a celestial _war_. We can’t deal with this alone.”

            Derek sighs but nods, conceding Stiles’s point, and Stiles pulls out his cell phone to make the call. Despite his bravado, he’s feeling incredibly nervous and unsure about this as well, but he thinks – he _hopes_ – that the distraction of the angels will be enough to draw Sam and Dean’s attention away from Derek’s mistakes.

            There’s a click on the end as Dean picks up, a gruff “Hello?”, and Stiles takes a deep breath. Moment of truth.

            “Dean? We may be in a little bit of trouble, here.”

            Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel at Stiles’s words. “What do you mean, trouble?” he bites out.

            This is the last thing they need right now. They’ve barely left Pasadena, just hit the expressway, Cas’s grace still safely stowed in Dean’s pocket. The faux-casual note to Stiles’s voice puts Dean on edge, and he speaks a little more harshly than he ordinarily might to a teenager.

            Next to Dean, Sam’s making a confused/distressed face. Dean ignores him, wanting Stiles to get to the point.

            “So you know how the angels are after Cas, right?” Stiles says, as though they hadn’t been the ones to tell him that in the first place. “Well, one of them showed up just a little while ago. I used that angel banishing…thingy that you taught me, with the blood and all, but there’s no doubt they know where we are now.”

            And oh. Right.

            “Uh, was this angel blond? Pointy face, British accent, kinda just looked like a dick?”

            “Yeah, that’s pretty spot on, actually,” Stiles says slowly.

            “Yeah, that’s just Balthazar. He’s cool. Well, not _cool_ exactly, he’s an asshole, but he’s an asshole that’s on our side,” Dean explains, kinda sheepishly. “Sorry we forgot to tell you?”

             Stiles puffs out a breath of air. “So you think we’re safe, then?”

             Dean starts to answer, but then realizes something. “Wait, why’d you have to call me? Cas knows who Balthazar is.”

             There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Dean’s worry, which had been momentarily relieved, returns tenfold. “Stiles. What happened?”

             “It’s…kind of a long story,” Stiles hedges, which doesn’t make Dean feel the slightest bit better.

            He slams his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. “Damn it, Stiles, just tell me what happened,” he yells, no longer even attempting to monitor his voice’s volume anymore.

            Next to him, Sam’s expression has progressed into full-blown alarm. He knows better than to interrupt Dean right now, though, so he doesn’t demand an explanation.

            When Stiles speaks again, he sounds more cowed than Dean has ever heard of. “See, we’ve been having problems in Beacon Hills again, since a few days before you guys came back into town.”

            “Dead bodies sort of problems?” Dean asks, all business as he pushes on the gas pedal just a bit, merging into another lane to pass a tractor-trailer.

            “Basically. So, we thought that since Cas used to be an angel and all, he could help us out, at least with like the knowledge stuff,” Stiles continues.

            Dean interrupts again. “And you didn’t think to call Sam and I? We kinda do this sort of thing for a living. We could have delayed the grace hunt for a day.”

            Dean can feel that there’s something Stiles isn’t telling him, something big, and it all comes out in his next sentence. “We didn’t want you sticking around because then you’d find out that Derek turned more people.”

            In the silence following that revelation, Dean hears a hissing voice in the background. He assumes it’s Derek, and this suspicion is confirmed when he hears Stiles reply, “We’re kinda fucked, dude, in case you hadn’t noticed. We really need their help.”

             “Damn right you do,” Dean replies, even though Stiles’s words weren’t meant for him. “And you still haven’t answered my original question. Where’s Cas?”

             Stiles sighs. “Look, can you just get here? I can tell you when you’re driving over, but we’re wasting time right now.”

             “You’re in luck, because we _are_ driving back,” Dean says bluntly. “We found the grace. Now tell me.”

             “Have you ever heard of a Kanima?”

             Dean looks at Sam and mouths the strange word to him. They’ve been living out of each other’s pockets for so long that they’re experts at nonverbal communication, so Sam gets it instantly, giving a frown and shaking his head.

            “Nope,” Dean confirms to Stiles. “What the hell is it?”

            “It’s some kind of South American shape-shifter, I don’t even know,” Stiles says. “The point is that it’s basically a giant lizard, and it’s under control of a human, one of the Argents.”

            Dean bites back a shudder, remembering Victoria Argent, and how she’d scared him more than some of the monsters he’d killed.

            “Anyway, the pack was trying to find out who the Kanima was, and I don’t even know why Cas was _there_ , really, but Jackson – he’s the Kanima – sensed he was an angel or something. The guy who’s controlling him, Gerard, was ‘interested’, and he kidnapped Cas.”

            It’s like Dean’s worst nightmare come true. He’s always had a lot of empathy for others, hides it under a layer of sarcasm and hedonism, but it’s there, and he always feels it keenly when he’s let someone down. Every time some person dies because he isn’t quick enough or makes a dumb call, the guilt washes over him and stays for _weeks_.

            And that’s just when it’s a stranger. Right now, he feels like he’d felt when he’d run towards Sam, all those years ago, and watched someone stick a knife into his back.

            Cas is in danger, possibly even dead, because Dean left him, powerless and vulnerable, in the care of a bunch of people he’d known for a little over a week, a bunch of people  who, apparently, couldn’t even be trusted.

             Dean realizes he’s been silent for far too long, and he growls into the phone, “Stay put. Do not do anything stupid. We’ll be there in a few hours,” then hangs up.

             Sam puts a light hand on his arm. “Dude, you’re going like 15 above the speed limit,” he points out quietly.

             Dean looks at the speedometer in surprise, seeing the needle hovering a little over 85. He lets off the gas a bit, even though every instinct he has is screaming at him to just floor it, because he knows that nothing will slow them down faster than getting pulled over for speeding.

             Hell, they might even be wanted men right now. Dean can never keep track.

             So Dean lets the Impala wind down to 75, and begins to explain the situation to Sam in clipped tones.

             Sam instantly pulls out the IPad and begins to research Kanimas (Kanima? Kanimi?), while Dean keeps his eyes on the road, mind far away.

            Everyone spends the next two and a half hours just sitting around the Hale house. Derek doesn’t like it, wants to be doing _something_ , but everyone else had managed to convince him to take Dean’s advice and stay put, pointing out that he didn’t even know where to start looking.

            He doesn’t know how Dean and Sam are going to do any better, but he keeps his mouth shut and watches over everyone else, staying silent while they converse in low voices.

            The mood can’t stay somber for long, what with so many energetic teenagers in close quarters, and by the time Derek’s ears pick up the unmistakable hum of the Impala, about five miles away, they’ve set up an impromptu training session in the living room.

            Despite his token protest that he’s not part of Derek’s pack, _really_ , Scott’s now sparring with Isaac, taking Derek’s instructions on how to tighten his stance and protect his sensitive parts from Isaac’s claws with barely a roll of his eyes. Boyd and Erica are sparring also, though, counter intuitively, they’re much fiercer about it than Scott and Isaac are, going at each other with snarls and fangs and claws and actually connecting, while Scott and Isaac are so afraid of hurting each other that they’re holding back.

            Stiles and Allison are sitting on the sidelines, watching the fights, while Lydia, who had adjusted to the fact that werewolves exist extremely quickly, has unearthed some sort of magazine from her bag and is reading it on what’s left of the couch.

            Allison’s playing with her bow absently as she watches the fights. She’d asked to be included, in the beginning, but Derek is afraid someone will get carried away and hurt her in hand-to-hand combat, and he’s afraid that _she’ll_ get carried away and hurt someone else if she uses her bow, so he’d turned her down.

            Stiles had been smart enough, or maybe lazy enough, to not even ask, and he’s been dividing his time between loudly cheering on Scott and complaining to Derek about the lack of amenities in the house, scoffing when Derek had reminded him that he doesn’t actually live here.

            They’re still on that topic when Derek hears the car, and Stiles notices almost instantly when he’s lost Derek’s attention. “Dude, what’s happening?” he asks.

            Scott and Isaac’s fight has stopped entirely, and Scott, the only other werewolf who’s heard the Impala before, has his ears pricked up. “They’re here,” he says, answering Stiles’s question.

            “Well, not here exactly, but within five minutes,” Derek says. “You guys should probably shift back, no need to give them another reason to want to kill you.”

            “They want to kill us? Why?” Isaac asks. He’s obeying Derek’s command, teeth shrinking back down and facial hair receding.

            “Well, they mostly want to kill _me_ ,” Derek says. “You guys should be fine, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

            “We don’t want them to kill _you_ either!” Isaac protests.

            “No one’s killing anyone, alright?” Stiles says. “We just need to focus on getting Cas back. Everything will be fine.”

            Throughout the exchange, Derek’s been cataloguing Dean and Sam’s approach. He hears the Impala stop outside the house, Dean’s gruff voice mutter, “This place gives me the heebie-jeebies,” hears their heavy footfalls getting closer and closer.

            The werewolves in the room all fall silent as Dean and Sam draw level with the front door, and the humans seem to take the cue as well. Even Stiles, loud, talkative, motormouth Stiles, is silent and tense, waiting for what’s to come.

            Dean and Sam walk into the room, wearing twin menacing expressions, and Erica immediately breaks the silence by exclaiming, “You didn’t tell me they were _hot_!”

            Derek wants to snap at her, but her facetious comment, and subsequent blatant once-over of each hunter in turn (Boyd, who knows Erica better than any of them, doesn’t seem threatened at all, just looks on curiously), breaks the tension, just a little.

            “Be that as it may,” Dean says, looking pleased. “We have business to get to. I’m guessing these three are the kids you turned?”

            Erica looks like she’s about to protest, probably more upset at being called a kid than at the fact that Dean keeps shooting murderous looks at Derek, but Isaac beats her to the punch. “We all _asked_ Derek to turn us, even after he told us about the dangers,” he says. “If you want to kill him, you’ll have to go through us first.”

            It’s nice, if a bit melodramatic. Derek can never be quite certain if Isaac’s extreme loyalty to him is just an abused kid latching onto the first adult that’s nice to him, but he reaps the benefits anyway.

            He likes to think it’s a little more than that, though.

            Dean scoffs at Isaac’s words. “Look, I’m not actually interested in you guys right now. All I care about is Cas.”

            Derek lets out a little breath of relief. He’s gotten a temporary reprieve, a stay of execution. If he can explain to Dean and Sam why he did what he did, if he can help them get Cas back, he might survive this yet.

            “Ok,” Stiles cuts in. “So what’s our plan?”

            Dean pulls out a small vial that’s filled with a bright light. It makes Derek’s nose itch, and it’s hard to look at for any significant amount of time. It seems impossible that a light can be contained like it is, and Derek instantly knows that this is the essence of what makes Cas an angel, that elusive ‘grace’ that Dean and Sam had been looking for.

            “Our plan is this,” Dean says, brandishing the vial. “This is Cas’s grace. We find him, get him all angel’d up again, and he’ll take care of the rest.”

            “But what if he’s…” Allison begins, tentative. “What if he’s dead?”

            Dean gives her a look so sharp that she actually steps back. She still has her bow in her hand, but Derek gets the idea that if she even tries to bring it up, Dean and Sam will take her down.

            Scott, unfortunately, either doesn’t realize this or doesn’t care, because he steps between Dean and Allison, letting out a low, threatening growl and letting his eyes flash amber.

            Dean ignores him completely. “Lemme guess, you’re Allison?”

            She nods.

            “Well, Allison, if he’s dead, then I can assure you that your grandpa or whatever will have a bullet in his skull as soon as I can get to him. But I don’t think he is. See, I don’t really get how this angel mojo bullshit works, but this -” he gestures to the vial again. “-feels like it’s alive to me. So our plan is this. We find out where Cas is, distract anyone else in the room long enough for him to get his grace back, and then we’re golden. Got it?”

            Allison nods and Dean sighs, relaxing his posture and nodding towards Scott. “Call off your guard dog, I’m not gonna hurt a teenager. Even one that has a badass bow.” He manages a little smile at the end of the sentence, the first time his expression has changed from tense focus since he entered the room, and both Scott and Allison relax, though Scott does so a bit more reluctantly than Allison.

            “Well, now that we’ve gotten _that_ out of the way,” Sam says. “I’m Sam, and the intense one is my brother, Dean. It’s nice to meet you, Allison, and I’m glad to see you’re alright, Lydia.” After receiving acknowledgement from both of them, he turns expectantly towards Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, who all introduce themselves, Boyd calmly, Isaac nervously, and Erica flirtatiously.

            “So what, we’re just gonna go stumble around in the woods until we find Gerard’s secret murder lair?” Stiles asks.

            It would be a reasonable question, Derek thinks, if it weren’t for the fact that Stiles spends most of his time hanging around werewolves. In lieu of answering, Derek just glares until Stiles gets it, secretly amused by the exasperated look Stiles throws him.

            “Riiiiight, werewolves,” Stiles says. “You guys realize that you’re not gonna decrease the dog jokes by running around in the woods like a bunch of bloodhounds, right?”

            “I knew I liked you for a reason,” Dean mutters to himself.

            It’s settled. As Derek leads his pack (and Scott, though he’s reluctant to leave Allison), back to the subway car to collect some of the clothing Cas has been wearing for scent, Dean and Sam agree to stay behind and keep an eye on the other three teenagers, though Derek’s sure that Dean just mostly wants to see what Allison can do with her bow.

            As he runs through the woods, more quickly than any human even though he’s not shifted, Derek can only hope that this will be as painless as Dean seems to think it will be.

            Castiel has been in the company of Gerard Argent for several hours, and he is not enjoying himself one bit.

            Though neither Gerard nor Jackson, who has been inhabiting his Kanima form since Castiel’s capture, have physically harmed him, he finds the fear and uncertainty of being around them exhausting.

            Being human is difficult.

            Really, he should never have been kidnapped at all. It was an amateur mistake, following Derek and the others out after Gerard, the type of thing that Dean has warned him about hundreds of times. But Castiel had managed to forget, for a split second, that he was no longer capable of protecting himself, and that momentary lapse of judgment had been all Gerard needed to strike.

            For the past several hours, Castiel’s been seated in a chair, his hands tied behind him to prevent his escape. It’s not as though he could escape even if that weren’t the case, though, because Jackson has been standing guard over him the entire time.

            He’s like nothing Castiel has ever seen before. The scaly skin, forked tongue, thrashing tail and odd, scuttling gait show no trace of the human within. Castiel has seen the werewolves shift in the past few days – it’s hard to avoid when one is living with them – and he could always see the latent humanity in them, in the way they interacted with each other, carried themselves, and even looked.

            As Castiel is contemplating Jackson while simultaneously giving the ropes knotted fast around his wrists half-hearted little tugs, Gerard comes back into the room.

            Castiel isn’t exactly sure where they are, because Gerard had seen fit to blindfold him immediately upon capture, but the chair he’s in is situated in the middle of a large, windowless room, almost entirely devoid of light. Gerard enters and leaves from a door at the far end of the room, which appears to be the only way out.

            “Have you decided to play nice with me yet?” Gerard asks.

            Castiel meets his eyes calmly. He’s been a warrior of the Lord for millennia. He has flown his way through Hell twice. He has faced down archangels and lived to tell the tale.

            This, sitting in a chair with only a slight hunger and the chafing on his wrists causing him discomfort, does not compare to any of those things.

            He does not say a word, has not said a word since Gerard captured him. Maybe it would be a good idea to develop a rapport of sorts with him, but Castiel can see the madness behind Gerard’s eyes and thinks it would probably be futile.

            Now, those same eyes grow harder than Castiel has ever seen them. “I’m beginning to grow impatient with you,” Gerard says. “I have half a mind to just let Jackson here tear you to shreds.”

            Castiel speaks his first words in hours, noting with satisfaction that the gruff tone of his voice, produced by the stress of forcing an angelic voice through human vocal cords, takes Gerard by surprise. “You won’t do that,” Castiel says. “Because then you’ll never find out what I am.” His confidence is not artifice. He knows this, knows that Gerard is too self-centered to let him die, just as surely as he knows that Dean is coming for him.

            “So you admit that you’re not human!” Gerard says triumphantly, and Castiel has never really understood why humans (Sam, especially) are so fond of rolling their eyes to indicate derision, but he thinks it’s a bit clearer now.

            “I have never claimed to be human,” Castiel says.

            “So tell me what you _are_ ,” Gerard says, his voice dropping to a low croon. It’s likely supposed to be soothing, or to make Castiel trust him, but the effect is merely unsettling. Jackson, who seems to be so in tune with Gerard that he picks up on his tone of voice, rather than his words, moves closer to where Castiel is sitting, giving his own soft little hisses.

            “Surely you’d rather figure it out for yourself?” Castiel asks.

            Gerard doesn’t answer him, merely glares and then matches out of the room in a huff, throwing a command at Jackson to ‘stay!’ over one shoulder.

            Castiel sighs, shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable, and casts a glance at Jackson, who has resumed his guarding pose. Though Castiel is convinced that Dean is coming for him, and that Derek and the rest of his Beacon Hills acquaintances likely are as well, he dislikes the idea of just sitting here, waiting for rescue.

            So he does the only thing he can do while tied up like this: he begins to speak in a low voice to Jackson, trying to appeal to his inner humanity.

            He just wishes that humanity were a little more obvious, is all.

            Dean’s gotta admit, werewolf noses are actually pretty damn helpful.

            He, Sam, and the human teenagers are trailing behind as the werewolves spread out in formation ahead of them, occasionally shouting to each other when they pick up a particularly strong scent. Though they still _look_ human, aren’t transformed at all, they move faster than any human possibly could, and Dean has the impression that they could be going faster if they liked, if they didn’t have the pesky non-werewolves slowing them down.

            Dean and Sam both have their guns out, safeties on, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. Allison has her bow in a loose grip by her side, arrow at the ready.

            Dean’s still a little confused at the whole ‘bow’ thing – Stiles had informed them once that the Argents had an arsenal of guns at their house, so it’s not like Allison doesn’t have access to better weapons – but he has to admit it looks pretty awesome. She looks like the classic picture of a hunter, an Artemis, moving through the woods soundlessly. She hasn’t spoken much, but Dean already likes her more than he’d liked either of her parents, and a damn sight more than he likes her aunt and grandpa, even though he’s never actually met either of them.

            Lydia, who’s at Allison’s side, is entirely unarmed, and her heels and giant bag will be liabilities in any fight. There’s something about her that’s a little dangerous, though, a little odd, and Dean has a feeling he might be surprised by her.

            Dean himself is trailing a little behind Allison and Lydia, and behind him are Sam and Stiles, conversing in low voices about something. Dean can tell by the way Sam’s body is angled towards Stiles and the way he alternates between focusing on Stiles’s words and sweeping the forest around them for threats that Sam will protect Stiles, whatever the cost.

            They’re brought up short, suddenly, by the werewolves stopping. “He’s in there,” Derek says, pointing to what looks like a large abandoned warehouse, stuck in the middle of the forest.

            Dean rolls his eyes at the cliché, but he takes the safety off his gun. “You guys can hear heartbeats, right?” he asks. “How many are in there?”

            Derek cocks his head to the side. “Sounds like just two. Guess Gerard doesn’t really need backup when he’s got Jackson.”

            Dean’s seen some bad motherfuckers in his life, but the way these kids talk about the Kanima is making him nervous. He can only hope that it’s a simple lack of exposure to monsters that causes them to talk about this one like it’s indestructible.

            Dean rolls his shoulders back. He’s faced down Wendigos, angels, demons, witches, shapeshifters, and vampires. He can take a lizard.

            He fingers the vial in his pocket, feeling the grace warm a little at his touch, and his resolve is strengthened. “On three?” he asks.

            Everyone comes to stand in front of Dean. They’d agreed that Dean will go in last, protecting the grace at any cost, because if he’s not allowed to get to Cas, everything’s gonna go to hell.

            “One,” Sam says, aiming his gun at the door of the warehouse.

            “Two,” Allison says, moving beside him and drawing back her bow.

            “Three!” Derek snarls, his eyes going red and his teeth lengthening into fangs.

            Dean doesn’t have time to contemplate Derek’s change, or the change of any of the other werewolves (though he does notice that Isaac looks particularly ugly when he’s changed), because the door has exploded inward, and there are bodies pouring through it. Even Lydia and Stiles, unarmed as they are, go in before Dean, but Dean has to push back the urge to tell them to stay back, trusting the others to keep them safe.

            Dean bursts through the door last. He’s barely able to register the layout of the room – a giant rectangle, really, with Cas tied up in a chair in the middle of it – before he sees Jackson, and nearly freezes.

            He’s just this enormous, scaly _thing_ , all tail the size of Dean’s thigh and slitted eyes. He’s one of the more terrifying things Dean has ever seen, and he’s already divested Sam of his gun with a flick of his tail, and is currently running towards Allison, ignoring the arrows she’s continuously shooting towards him and the three or so werewolves that are trying to stop him.

            In the middle of the chaos, the blood and snarling and screams, Dean runs, full-tilt, towards Cas. If he can only get there before anyone actually dies, they’ll have a shot at this – Cas can fix it, Dean knows he can.

            He’s about thirty feet away when he hears a voice yell, “Get him!”

            Dean makes the mistake of looking up, seeing an old man, face twisted up in hatred, standing by the warehouse door. That moment of hesitation is apparently all the Kanima needs, because the next thing Dean feels is _pain_ , as the giant lizard creature leaps on top of him, having moved faster than an animal that big should be able to.

            Dean goes to the ground, the creature’s claws ripping into the flesh over his shoulders. There’s a lot of noise, protests, but Dean can hear one above the rest, a familiar, gruff voice shouting his name. Screwing up his strength, Dean pulls the vial out of his pocket and tosses it blindly in the general direction of the voice, hoping against hope that it’s enough.

            There’s silence for a moment, and Dean curses whoever made that damn vial too thick to break. The Kanima is right in his face, looking as close to triumphant as a creature with no facial expressions can, and Dean resigns himself to being eviscerated, only hopes that everyone else can make it out alive.

            Then, there’s the unmistakable noise of an arrow, whistling through the air, and Cas shouts, “Close your eyes!”, voice taking on that angelic quality that makes Dean’s ears hurt.

            Dean thanks fucking God for Allison, and uses the fact that the Kanima is distracted to flip it over and cover its gross, scaly eyes. Never let it be said that Dean is not a good person.

            The Kanima seems too shell-shocked to struggle, probably affected by the high pitched hum in the air and the white light that Dean can see even through his own eyelids.

            Someone’s screaming, someone male, and Dean can only hope that everyone was smart enough to listen to Cas, doesn’t want to deal with the responsibility of having blinded a teenager.

            Just like that, it’s over, the noise cutting out and light fading. Dean feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and the pain from the deep gashes in his shoulders and back, the pain that’s been buzzing at the back of his mind, only kept at bay by the adrenaline, fades instantly.

            Dean groans with relief and rolls off Jackson, trusting Cas to take care of it.

            Jackson seems scared, cringing away from the newly re-angeled Cas, but Cas merely reaches out and lays a hand on his forehead, the way he does when he’s about to BAMF somebody somewhere.

            Before Dean’s eyes, the lizardlike qualities melt off of Jackson’s face, replaced by a surprised-looking, human teenager. He doesn’t stay like that, though: his eyes glow a bright, unnatural blue, his teeth elongate, and hair grows over his face. Cas has made him a werewolf, just like he wanted.

            Confident that that’s taken care of, Dean gets to his feet, a little shakily. He hears Lydia scream “Jackson!” and run over to him, but he ignores her in favor of looking over the rest of the people in the room.

            Everyone looks fine, no eyes burned out that he can see, and Dean wonders for a moment if whoever was screaming had just been scared, despite the fact that he and Sam had warned them of what would happen when Cas got his grace back.

            Then, he remembers Gerard, and, sure enough, when he turns to the doorway to the warehouse, he sees that Gerard is lying on his back, hands clasped over his face. Dean snorts. Serves the old bastard right.

            Cas comes up behind him, walking lightly. “Hello, Dean,” he says, a touch of humor in his words.

            Dean turns around and hugs him. Fuck what everyone else thinks. He’s got his angel back.

            After everyone has gone back home, Derek finds himself alone in the subway car. Usually, Isaac stays with him, but he’d decided to go to Scott’s tonight, celebrating, along with the rest of the teenagers, successfully ending the killing.

            Derek feels strange, a mixture of relief, sadness, and fear. He’s happy that this whole thing is over, of course he is, relieved that Gerard’s lost eyesight means he won’t ever be able to hurt anyone again, and grateful that Jackson is no longer under anyone else’s control.

            At the same time, though, he’s alone. He has his pack – now plus one permanent member – but not tonight. It’s just another reminder of the gap between them, the fact that Derek’s only friends don’t see him in the same way he sees them.

            The fear, of course, is for what Dean and Sam might do to him. He can only hope that Cas can convince them to leave him alone. In any case, he doesn’t really have to worry about that tonight, because judging by the way Dean dragged Cas off immediately after making sure everyone was alright, he won’t be thinking about Derek for the rest of the night.

            Derek is startled out of his thoughts by a heartbeat outside. It’s fast, quicker than most humans, and Derek’s a little ashamed to admit that he knows who it belongs to immediately.

            “Are you gonna just stand out there?” Derek calls, after it becomes clear that Stiles isn’t going to come in any time soon.

            Stiles pokes his head around the door. “Dude, what are you doing here all alone?” he asks. Though the smile on his face is bright, his heart is still going a mile a minute, showing how nervous he is.

            Derek frowns. “What do you mean?”

            “Everyone’s over at Scott’s,” Stiles says. “Well, everyone except Dean and Cas. We thought we should give them some ‘alone time’. But I think Sam’s getting sick of being the only person there over the age of 18, so come on!”

            Derek’s speechless. This is maybe the first time that he has been invited to something when there isn’t some sort of threat to contend with, at least since he moved back to Beacon Hills. “Won’t Scott be upset if I’m there?” he asks.

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “He didn’t seem _thrilled_ , exactly, but I think he’s finally realized he’s been unfair to you. I mean, it’s not like you _caused_ any of his problems, and besides, I think he’s warming up to the wolf thing.”

            It’s good news, and it feels like a little bit of the massive amount of pressure on Derek has been taken off. He nods wordlessly and gets up, preparing to follow Stiles out of the car.

            Stiles stops him. “For what it’s worth, dude, I think you’re a pretty kickass alpha.” He’s brought a hand up to scrub over his buzzed head, and there’s a small blush staining his cheeks.

            _Fuck it,_ Derek thinks, and he halts his progress towards the door, turns to Stiles, gets right up in his personal space.

            Stiles yelps at the intrusion. “I meant that as a compliment! Oh God, don’t kill me!” he says, but he doesn’t smell of fear, and Derek can tell that he doesn’t think Derek would actually hurt him.

            It’s maybe that last fact, the _trust_ that Stiles seems to have in him, the fact that Stiles may be the only person who does trust him, that allows Derek to take the final leap of faith, to lean right into Stiles and press their lips together.

            He sort of expects Stiles to stiffen up in surprise, and he does, a little, but he recovers more quickly than Derek would have thought and kisses him back.

            He’s clearly inexperienced, sloppy and too eager, but Derek steadies him with a hand on the back of his neck and just goes for it, turning off the part of his brain that’s still screaming at him about all the reasons why this is a bad idea,.

            When he pulls away, about a minute later, because he doesn’t want to overwhelm Stiles, Derek is pleased to see that the little blush that was on Stiles’s face before has become a very large blush.

            He wonders how far down Stiles’s body it stretches, and revels in the fact that he may just get to find out.

            Stiles fishmouths at him for a few moments. “What…what the hell was that?” he finally croaks out.

            “That was a kiss,” Derek says, turning back towards the door. “I know you’re inexperienced, but I would’ve thought you’d know _that_?” He’s glad of the fact that his back is to Stiles when he allows a triumphant grin to take over his face at Stiles’s offended noise.

            “Hey, _not cool_ ,” Stiles says as he matches his stride with Derek’s. “I’ll have you know that I’ve kissed many people in my life. These lips have been _everywhere_.” He’s lying, and Derek would know that even if his heartbeat didn’t stutter.

            “I’m sure you have,” Derek says, amused, as they reach Stiles’s Jeep. Derek slides into the passenger seat, and Stiles gives him a strange look as he gets into the drivers’ seat. “Don’t you have your own car?” he asks.

            “I’m reducing carbon emissions,” Derek retorts, and Stiles’s answering laugh, loud and surprised, makes him feel warm all over.

            The main reason that Dean’s totally cool with the fact that Sam now knows about him and Cas is that he’s no longer a cockblock.

            The main reason that Dean’s totally _not_ cool with the fact that Sam now knows about him and Cas is that he’s _really fucking obnoxious_.

            When all the dust settles, and all of the teenagers decide to have a little ‘no one died!’ party at Scott’s house, Sam makes this big fucking show of going with them, therefore leaving Dean and Cas alone.

            So yeah, Dean’s torn between being pissed at Sam for being a little shit and being grateful to him for leaving him alone with Cas.

            “Shouldn’t you be protecting yourself from the angels, or something?” is the first thing Dean says. Much as he likes Cas being around, he did not just go through all that bullshit, teaming up with werewolves, Balthazar, and fucking _Crowley_ in an effort to get Cas’s grace back, just for the guy to get shish-kebab’d by some pissed off angels not five minutes later.

            Cas turns to him, smiling wryly. “I suppose I should,” he says. “This is very tiring, all this running and hiding.”

            “You don’t have to tell me that, dude,” Dean says.

            There’s a moment of silence, before Dean says, “Don’t be a stranger, alright? Let us know if there’s anything at all we can do to help. You know we got your back.”

            “I do,” Cas says. He comes close, winding his arms around Dean’s neck. “I do wish that I could stay.”

            “Me too,” Dean says hoarsely, before kissing him.

            Dean pours all his feelings into the kiss, the way he always seems to with Cas. All the things he can’t say out loud – how worried he’s been, how much the idea of losing Cas terrifies him, how Cas has become family to him, just as vital as Sam or Bobby – seem to just pour out of him.

            Dean thinks that one of the advantages of being with an all-powerful being is that Cas seems to understand all this.

            Cas is the one to pull away first, face stoic and determined, a soldier to the end. He spares the time for one last jibe before he goes, though, “I’ll be sure not to bring Balthazar.”

            He steps back from Dean, then disappears with a light rustling noise.

            The party at Scott’s is in full swing when Derek and Stiles arrive.

            It’s not a typical teenage party – the fact that most of the guests are werewolves means that there’s no booze or pot involved, and they’re being fairly tame and quiet because Scott’s mom is upstairs, asleep.

            Still, it’s the first time Derek’s been to any sort of party in years, and it’s…nice.

            Scott’s couch is taken up by Erica and Boyd, entwined with each other, and an uncomfortable-looking Sam. Isaac is spread out on the floor, long limbs everywhere, and Scott and Allison are sharing the same armchair.

            Lydia and Jackson are nowhere to be seen, and Derek supposes that they probably have some things to clear up between them. Anyway, it means that he doesn’t have to worry about what he’s going to do with Jackson quite yet, so he doesn’t mind.

            The seating arrangements mean that Derek and Stiles have the choice to either sit on the floor near Isaac or share the last remaining piece of furniture, a shabby loveseat.

            Yesterday – hell, even just an hour ago – Derek would’ve taken the floor, too afraid of what he might do in close proximity to Stiles.

            Now, though, everything’s out in the open, and Derek settles on the loveseat with no hesitation, biting back an uncharacteristic grin as Stiles flops down beside him, allowing his leg to rest faux-casually against Derek’s.

            “Thank God you’re here,” Sam says. “I was beginning to feel like a pedophile, hanging out with all these teenagers.”

            “Welcome to Derek’s entire life,” Stiles says, dodging the half-hearted swipe Derek aims at him as a result. Derek can’t bring himself to be too angry, not now that everything’s going right for once, but he has a reputation to uphold, so he bares his teeth at Stiles anyway.

            When the resulting laughter dies down, Allison turns to Sam. “What’re you guys going to do now, then?” she asks.

            Sam shrugs. “Go back to hunting monsters, I guess. Help Cas out with his fight against the other angels when he needs it.”

            “Doesn’t it get tiring?” Allison asks. “Just hunting, nothing else?”

            The mood in the room has done a 180, from an air of jovial celebration to this current tension. Sam doesn’t seem to be offended, though, and he merely offers Allison a shrug. “Sure it does. But we save people, and that makes it all worth it.”

            She smiles at him, dimpling up and essentially clearing the air of the tension. “It does, doesn’t it?”

            “Damn straight,” A new voice says, and Derek turns to see that Dean has come through the door. “You really should tell your mom to invest in new locks, kid. Yours are way too easy to pick,” Dean addresses Scott, moving to sit next to Sam on the couch and not seeming to notice, or care about, the poisonous glare Erica sends him when she’s forced to move to accommodate him.

            “I thought you’d be with Cas?” Sam says.

            “He had to get going. Y’know, angel business and all, hide from the dicks, powwow with the…other dicks,” he grimaces. “Balthazar’s gonna be even more annoying if we ever see him again.”

            “That was entirely your fault,” Stiles says lazily.

            As Dean and Stiles begin to snipe back and forth to each other, and Scott puts on some shitty horror B-movie, Derek relaxes back into the loveseat. He looks over and catches Sam’s eyes. Sam gives him a smile, and Derek’s confident that somehow, he’s in the clear for what he’s done.

            When Derek goes back to visit the house the next morning, intent on getting his remaining stuff out of there and making a new start, he sees a symbol painted on the door, a filled in triangle with spidery lines jutting out from each of the points.

            He supposes a peaceful summer was too much to ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Yeaaah, there's probably gonna be a third part to this...


End file.
